


Don't I Love You So (Say, I Do)

by Lyowyn



Series: Princes of the Universe [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Car Sex, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, God is kind of a troll, Humor, Ineffable Bureaucracy, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Just what a century of demonic influence does to a vintage Bentley, M/M, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, Wedding, cars as characters, comedy porn, comedy smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2020-11-22 06:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 100,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyowyn/pseuds/Lyowyn
Summary: With the Christ and the Antichrist as best men, and God and Lucifer on the guest list, Aziraphale and Crowley's wedding is sure to be a night to remember.





	1. Prologue: Thirty Minutes Before Ceremony

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I haven't finished editing the rest of this series, or putting in chapter titles, but I did have a nice little break, and I think I promised you lot a wedding. So, let's get this dumpster fire started!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little note on the RPF aspects of this fic, before we get started. 
> 
> Oscar Wilde and Freddie Mercury will be included as characters a few chapters in. They are a fairly large part of the story, and I tried to research their respective biographies as much as I could, but in the context of this story they are very much fictional characters. There are some inaccuracies in regards to their real lives, and their characterizations are based off of their public personas and as much research as I could do in a small period of time. As such, if you're an expert on either of these two very talented and interesting men, they will probably come off as a little OOC. 
> 
> I'm trying my best, and it's all in good fun. I hope that everyone enjoys their inclusion, regardless. I usually steer far away from RPF, but they both seem to fit in as just another part of this fandom.

Aziraphale paced the tent. He held a cup of tea in both hands, and it rattled against the saucer-- only managing to contain its steaming contents through a miracle of will.

Adam lounged in one chair, poking distractedly at his mobile, while he kept one wary eye on Aziraphale.

“Would you just sit down,” Adam said. “You're making me dizzy.”

Aziraphale paused, glanced at the other unoccupied chair, and continued his pacing. “I'll wrinkle my trousers.”

“You're a fucking, supernatural entity. I don't think wrinkles are beyond your ability to manage.”

Aziraphale huffed, but he finally sat down.

“What's wrong with you?”

“I'm about to get married. A bit of nerves is to be expected, under the circumstances.”

“Nerves,” Adam repeated. “What could you possibly be nervous about?”

“_I'm about to be wed_.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So? _So?_” Aziraphale’s voice took on a manic tone. “I'm about to pledge myself to Crowley for eternity, before God, Lucifer, Oscar Wilde, and Freddie _bloody _Mercury. And eternity is quite a long time when you're immortal. Of course I'm nervous. That's quite a commitment. What if it doesn't work out? God knows we've had our differences in the past.”

“You're getting cold feet.” Adam said.

Aziraphale looked down at his shoes. “It's not the temperature I'm worried about; it's whether I can make them move one after the other.”

“Mmhm,” Adam made a skeptical sound. “And, tell me, exactly what is going to change,_ from yesterday_, after you've pledged your eternal love and loyalty before Gran, Dad, Oscar, Freddie, and everyone else?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, a panicked look in his eyes. “We'll be _married_.”

“Right,” Adam said. “And, how will that be different from yesterday?”

“What do you mean, _how_? We'll be _married_. Joined together in holy matrimony. Bonded in the eyes of God.”

“And that will be different from yesterday... _how, _exactly?” Adam pressed.

“It just _will_,” Aziraphale huffed.

“Right, so by some mystical, divine, or occult method, the simple act of you walking down that aisle and saying, '_I do,'_ is going to change _everything. _You'll be married, so suddenly you and Crowley are going to be living in each other's pockets. You'll have to dine together for every meal. You’ll spend all of your time bickering, or in the bedroom, _or both_.” Adam gave him a pointed look.

“What are you trying to say?”

“You two are the most _married_ people that I've ever met. You're not going to be any more married at the end of this ceremony than you are right now-- except that you'll have to file jointly if you ever decide to pay your thousands of years worth of back taxes. And, if you haven't gotten sick of each other yet, you probably never will. So, drink your tea, and stop freaking out, because you're going to be marching those pumps down that aisle in about twenty minutes.”

Aziraphale looked down at his shoes. “They aren't pumps.”

“They're all shiny, and they have heels.”

“They're loafers.”

“They’re satin and they have sparkly buckles. They look like something that Sebastian, _the most fabulous pilgrim_, wore over on the Mayflower.”

“I'll have you know, these were quite fashionable in the day.”

“What day was that? October the 31st, 1669?”

“I actually bought them in 1789."

“You couldn't buy new shoes for your wedding?”

Aziraphale smiled fondly to himself as he said, “Something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue-- with a sixpence in your shoe.” He reached down to slip off his left shoe, and held it out to Adam to show him.

There was indeed a sixpence resting in the bottom of it, and the silk lining was a pale blue colour.

Adam shook his head. “Well, they're definitely old, and blue, and there's your sixpence.”

Aziraphale tilted the shoe in the light for a moment, admiring the way the light shifted with the opalescent glimmer, and then slipped it back on. “The lining is new, actually. Crowley had it added in, and they sort of are borrowed. I thought they were lost, you see-- a bit of a kerfuffle during the French Revolution.” Aziraphale’s face twisted into an abashed grimace. “Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong _shoes_, apparently. Crowley retrieved them for me, but sort of _neglected to return __them_. He's just had them put away, in a box, all these years. He decided to let me borrow them for the day to _mark the occasion._” Aziraphale chuckled. “And he calls me a sentimentalist.”

“Well, there you have it,” Adam said. “You have to marry him now. He found your lost slipper.”

“What?”

“That's how it goes in the fairytale,” Adam explained. “Prince Charming finds the glass slipper, and he travels the land trying the shoe on all the young ladies in the kingdom, until he finds Cinderella. The shoe fits, so they get married and live happily ever after.”

“In most of the older versions of that tale, it was a ring, and not a slipper. Although, in the Chinese-"

“Oi,” Adam said angrily, cutting him off. “I just made a hugely sentimental point about how bloody romantic your whole shoe story is. Leave off the literary analysis, and marvel at how beautiful it all is—six thousand year romance, fairytale wedding. Well,… _fairy_ wedding, anyway-- complete with gallant, romantic gestures involving footwear. Now, stop overthinking everything, and just be in love.”

“I _am_ in love,” Aziraphale protested.

“So act like it. This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “You're awfully preachy for the Antichrist-- especially since you haven’t been able to maintain a stable relationship for more than six months.”

“And you're awfully salty for an angel.”

“Former angel.”

“Ah, well that explains it then.” Adam turned his attention back to his phone, and Aziraphale finally took a sip of his tea.

-*-

Yeshua’s mobile buzzed in his hand, and he opened the new text message from Adam.

**I don’t know how much more of these two idiots I can take**.

He gave the screen a commiserating half-smile, and looked up just in time to get hit in the face by a mass of black and white feathers. Yeshua brushed Crowley’s wing aside, scowling. “Would you put those away before you take my head off?”

Crowley folded his wings down, but kept them on the corporeal plane, and continued to pace the length of the tent. “Why do we have to be in separate tents? I should go over there. I know how he gets. He’ll be having a panic attack right now.”

“Relax. Adam has it under control. You’re not supposed to see each other before the ceremony.”

“That’s a stupid, outdated tradition.” Crowley took a swig of his flask, as he spun on his heel, turning his back on Yeshua, to walk agitatedly to the other side of the small tent. “What are you doing in here anyway? Shouldn’t you be outside, making sure that your horrible family doesn't start up a Holy War? God and Lucifer sitting on opposite sides of the aisle! Whose stupid idea was that? We aren’t going to have a wedding. We’ll have to cancel it due to Armageddon.” He turned towards Yeshua again and took another swig. “We might as well cancel everything _now_, so we don’t have to celebrate our anniversary on the day the earth was destroyed, and honeymoon… on the _moon_.”

“I think I’m right where I need to be,” Yeshua said. “No one is going to start Armageddon. They’ve agreed to a truce. Anathema and Madame Tracy are keeping an eye on all the guests. It’s going to be a beautiful wedding, and you will not need to take your honeymoon on the moon.”

“Anathema and _Madame Tracy_? What are they going to do if God starts raining down fire and swarms of locusts? Throw a crystal ball at Her? Read some tea leaves? Offer _strict dicipline_ and _intimate massage _at a discount price?” Crowley took another swig of whatever was in the flask. “This was a stupid idea. This is all going to end horribly. I need to get Aziraphale while there’s still time.”

“You should maybe lay off the liquor now, or you’ll be stumbling down the aisle.”

Crowley sneered at him and took another drink. “Unlike you, I’m perfectly capable of managing my own blood alcohol level.”

Yeshua held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Suit yourself.” He took his phone out again to text Adam back.

**I know what you mean. Crowley thinks Armageddon is more likely than a wedding at this point. Starting to wonder if that might not be preferable.**

When Yeshua looked up again, Crowley was peeking out the tent flap.

“You should go out there and check on things,” he said.

“So you can sneak off to Aziraphale’s tent?” Yeshua asked. “I don’t think so.”

“I wasn...” Crowley looked away. “Can’t see each other before the ceremony. ‘Ssss tradition.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Crowley spun back to him, flaring his wings, and gestured wildly. “Well, you’re a terrible friend. Aziraphale is over there freaking out, and you’re keeping me trapped here like some kind of prisoner. He’s probably about to call off the whole wedding, and you won’t even let me see him one last time.”

“You, literally, _just_ suggested we call off the wedding to prevent Armageddon, two minutes ago,” Yeshua pointed out.

“_Exactly_! The world is about to end! The least you could do is let me spend what little time we have left with my husband.”

Yeshua rolled his eyes. “He isn’t going to be your husband for another half hour. And, that’s only if you settle down and _relax_. Just sit down and drink your scotch, or whatever. This will all be over before you know it. Everything is going to be _fine_.”

Crowley huffed and threw himself into his chair. He forgot about his wings, and nearly ended up on the floor instead, but managed to throw them wide and sprawl sideways in the chair without falling. Yeshua laughed at the display, and Crowley crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.

His mobile buzzed again, and Yeshua opened the message.

**Too busy. If you want to start Armageddon, you’ll have to do it yourself. Not entirely against the idea... Just have my hands full at the moment. **

Yeshua typed out a response.

**We’ve managed them this far. Seems a waste to blow it all up now. We deserve a slice of cake first, at least.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I managed to tie this series in with [the ridiculous shoe fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20342464) So, that's a thing that happened...


	2. Wedding Planning

**THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE WEDDING**

**-*-**

Aziraphale had a good spread of bridal magazines, and one book on wedding planning from the 1950s, laid out on a table in the back of the bookshop. There was a leather bound notebook on his knee, and a fountain pen in one hand, but he seemed to have mostly forgotten them, as he and Crowley had made their way steadily through several bottles of red wine-- in the interest of choosing one for the dinner course at the wedding.

“We'll need bridesmaids,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley frowned, settling deeper into his chair with his glass of wine. “What for?”

“For the _wedding.”_

“Yeah, I figured that part,” Crowley said. “Only, we haven't got a _bride_, so what do we need bridesmaids for? They're _maids for the bride_. Unless you're planning to put on some tits for the occasion, so you can wear a pretty dress? I'll help you pick out a pretty dress. You'd look lovely in a princess ball gown. Just miles and miles of taffeta…. all white and fluffy.” Crowley took on a dreamy expression.

“You're the one who favors a female aspect, on occasion. You know I've never felt particularly comfortable as a woman, and it hardly seems appropriate to put it on for the day, just to keep up appearances—not when the humans have struggled so hard for the right to same-sex marriage.”

“You could wear the dress anyway, if you want a _really_ gay wedding,” Crowley suggested. “I know the perfect shop.”

“I have my eye on this lovely, cream-coloured morning coat,” Aziraphale said. “You can pick out the dresses for the bridesmaids.”

“But, we don't have a _bride_.”

“Putting on a dress isn't going to make me one either. We'll just have to have groomsmaids instead. We need them for the procession.”

Crowley grumbled to himself and took a sip of his wine, and then he suddenly put his hand up and shouted, “Dibs on Anathema!”

“Anathema? I thought you hated each other.”

“I don't hate Anathema.”

“You can't say two kind words to one another.”

“That's just the kind of relationship we have. I'sss fond mutual animosity.”

“You hit her with your car on the night you met.”

“She hit my car with _her_ bicycle. Mad harridan,” Crowley muttered.

“And you want her to be your bridesmaid?”

“Groomsmaid,” Crowley corrected.

“_Groomsmaid_, then?”

“It might have escaped your notice, but neither one of us has all that many friends. We barely have acquaintances that are close enough to put them in our wedding, and that very limited pool is pretty much an all boys club. So…” He pointed at Aziraphale. “If I already claimed Anathema, who does that really leave?”

Aziraphale thought about it for a moment. “Ah,” he said, pursing his lips. “I see your point.”

“So, you'll be asking Madame Tracy then?” Crowley asked, with a smug look.

“I suppose, I must do.” Aziraphale scribbled a few things into his ledger. “So that's one Christ, one Antichrist, and two witches in the wedding party. And, there's the officiant of course.” Aziraphale’s eyebrows made a bid to escape his forehead as he looked over the list. “I suppose it's a good thing that we settled on Halloween for the date. Though, I do hope the weather cooperates. An outdoor wedding, at the end of October, may be a bit optimistic.”

Crowley grimaced. “Are you sure about the officiant? I mean, not exactly in keeping with the tone of the occasion, is it?”

“We agreed that we need to keep things neutral. If you can think of another option…”

“No, no.” Crowley waved a hand in the air. “I’sss fine. It’ll be fine. Did we decide on the venue?”

“Well, the Ritz for the reception, obviously.”

“_Obviously_. An' the ceremony?”

“You decide,” Aziraphale said.

“Third alternate rendezvous?”

“The train station?”

“Yes, _the train station_, obviously. I can’t think of a more romantic place to get married.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “The train station's the fourth alternate rendezvous.”

“I thought the café at the British Museum was number four.”

“The museum café is the second alternate rendezvous.” The wine coursing its way through his system made saying the word rendezvous particularly enjoyable, so he did it again, slowly, moving his lips more than neccessary. "_Rendezvous_."

“Well what’s the third one, then?” Aziraphale asked.

“The bandstand in Battersea Park.”

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asked, doubtfully. “I thought the bandstand was number four?"

“Yeah. 'Msure.” Crowley counted them off on his fingers. “Iss the duck pond in St. James’s Park, then th' British Museum café, the bandstand, the train station, and the number 19 bus makes five.” Crowley frowned at his hand and wiggled his fingers. “Or maybe isss the bus first and _then_ the train station.” He shook his head. “_Doesn’ matter_. 'M sayin' we should do the wedding in th' bandstand."

Aziraphale tilted his head to the side, considering it. “Alpha Centauri,” he said.

“No," Crowley scoffed. "Tha' would never work.” He scrunched his face up, listing a little to the side. “Toom'ny humans on the guest list. Would be a mess. We’d need a spaceship. Never make it back in time for the reception.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “I meant that we were at the bandstand when you asked me to run away to Alpha Centauri with you.”

“Yeah.” Crowley nodded, perhaps a few too many times; it made him feel dizzy, and he had to concentrate on holding his head still, afterwards. “Wasss yer point?”

“Nothing. That will be perfect," Aziraphale said. He scribbled in his ledger again. “So, The Ritz for the reception, and Battersea Park for the ceremony. We should really try to finalize the guest list, so we can send out invitations.”

“We'll have Adam and Yeshua, obvi'sly." Crowley counted off. "If you insist on inviting God-"

“We can't snub God.”

“If you _insist _on inviting God,” Crowley said again, “then we have to invite Lucifer-- means Azazel'll be coming along. 'Nathema will bring her buffoon of a husband and her horrible children. Madame Tracy'll have _Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell_ sitting in the back-- wearing some terrible suit and muttering 'bout the Marriage Equality Act." Crowley heaved a sigh. "And, I _suppose_, if we're getting the whole gang back together, might as well invite all of Adam's little friends as well.”

“And Warlock,” Aziraphale insisted.

“If that's some attempt to get _me_ into the bridal gown…” Crowley muttered.

“I'm sure that you would look lovely. Perhaps a sheer A-line with--”

“No.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t expect you to put on Nanny Ashtoreth again-- just for Warlock. You may, of course, wear whatever you wish. I certainly don't intend to wear a cassock or side-whiskers for the proceedings. I'm certain that Warlock will be too polite to ask, in any case.”

“Too polite?” Crowley gave him an incredulous look. “_Warlock_? Are you sure we're talking about the same kid?”

Aziraphale firmed his expression and scratched Warlock's name down on their meager guest list. “We're inviting him. Anyone else from your side?”

“_My side_?”

“Hell. Surely you still have some friends down below.”

“_Demons?_ Demons don't make _friends_. We jus' sort of..." He waved a hand through the air in a vague gesture. "Resent each other to a greater or lesser degree, based on familiarity.”

“Of course. Any of them that you resent to the correct degree to invite them to our wedding?”

“No,” Crowley spat out in disbelief. “I don't even want Lucifer and Azazel there.”

“What about Beelzebub?”

“Beelzebub? That fly-swarmed midden-heap tried to have me executed. You ought to remember. You were there.”

“Yes, well at least they gave you a trial. And, it hardly matters now; let bygones be bygones.”

“_Hardly _matters,” Crowley sputtered. He narrowed his eyes at his angel. “Who've you put on that list?”

Aziraphale shifted the notebook away from Crowley, angling it out of his view, but Crowley managed to catch the first few letters of one name in particular: GAB.

“GABRIEL?” he shouted. “You're not inviting _Gabriel _to our wedding. Why on Earth would you want to?”

“I can't just invite one archangel and not invite all of them.”

Crowley frowned at him. “Which one do you _want_ to invite? Michael is a scheming little twat, and Uriel is a nosy bitch.”

“I thought I'd invite Raphael.”

“_What_?” Crowley narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“No,” Aziraphale said uncertainly. “Why would it be?”

“Because, I…” but Crowley couldn't say it, even now.

“I doubt he'll come. It's been _ages_, but still… It only seems right to invite him.”

“No archangels,” Crowley said.

“I suppose we don’t _really_ need to invite the others, but--”

“No archangels will need an invitation,” Crowley said, through gritted teeth. He tried to give Aziraphale a knowing look, but the wine was causing him to loose some of the nuances of his facial control.

“Oh, don’t scowl at me like that,” Aziraphale huffed. “Fine, they’re off the list.” He scratched out the names irritably.

Crowley sighed and muttered, “As though I’d need an invitation to my own bloody wedding.”

“What was that?” Aziraphale asked, looking back up from the ledger to Crowley.

“Nothing.” Crowley ran his hands up under his sunglasses to rub at his eyes. “Are we done with this for the night?”

“We can be,” Aziraphale agreed, and set his ledger aside to pick up his wine glass again. He took a long drink, and added. “We should book our dancing lessons tomorrow, though. Do you want to get them out of the way now, or would you prefer to wait until a bit closer to the date?”

“I don’t need dancing lessons. I _know_ how to dance.”

“If you want to call _that_ dancing.”

“If you think our first dance is going to be a gavotte—”

-*-

Adam wasn't quite sure what to expect when he knocked on the door to Marcia's flat.

They had been dating for a little over two months now, and things were starting to get serious. He'd even introduced her to his parents, and he'd thought that everything was going well.

Only, she'd been ignoring his calls for four days. Adam had received enough terse, one word, texts to know that she was alive, and he'd just assumed that she was too busy working on her master's thesis to spend any time with him, so he'd given her some space. By the time that he finally realized something was wrong, she had stopped responding to them altogether.

It was obvious enough that she was upset with him, but he couldn't imagine what he had done, or said, to make her angry. He brought flowers anyway, just in case.

He could hear her moving around now, on the other side of the door, and he held out the bouquet, plastered on a smile, and took a deep breath, as the door opened a crack-- showing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and a shock of frizzy, blonde hair.

“Adam,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, you aren't returning my calls or texts. I figured something was the matter. I thought we could maybe talk about it. Can I come in?”

She seemed to debate it for a moment. “No, I... don't think that's a good idea. In fact, I don't think we should see each other anymore, at all.”

Whatever Adam had expected to happen, the sudden finality of the statement still hit him in the guts. “But…” He sucked in a hiss of breath and tried to school his features against the sudden desolation he felt. His next words came out sounding weak. “_What did I do_?”

“You know what you did.”

“No,” he insisted, “I don't. I _really _don't.”

She opened the door a little wider, one hand resting on the edge of it while the other was set on one cocked hip. “Where were you last weekend?”

“I was just visiting my parents.”

“Yeah, except Pepper's sister is dating my flatmate, and when I happened to mention that you were home, visiting your family, for the weekend, she said that she knew _for a fact_ that you hadn't been in Tadfield, because her mum had had your parents round for dinner on Saturday night, and they would have mentioned it."

“My _biological_ parents,” Adam said, heart sinking. “I told you I was adopted.”

“Right,” Marcia said, her voice going cold. “You did say that. Only, when I mentioned something about _that_ to your mother, at dinner the other night, when we were in the ladies room, she looked at me like I'd grown another head. She said that I must be confusing you with someone else. You weren't adopted Adam. Why would you lie about that?”

“I'm not lying,” Adam said, desperately. “She just… _doesn't know_.” He winced.

Marcia was shaking a little with anger. Her eyes flicked upward, her teeth bit into her lower lip, and she gave a quick shake of her head. “I really liked you, Adam, but I’m not going to be the stupid girl who just ignores all the obvious warning signs. I'm not going to just stick around while you lie to me, and you won't even admit it! I saw you with_ that man_.”

“What man?”

“The one with the silver hair, who looks like a porn star. I saw the two of you going into your flat, on Sunday night, when you were supposed to be _visiting your parents_. He was hanging all over you. He had his arm around your shoulders, and you were laughing. I'm not an idiot, Adam. I don't like being made to feel like a fool, and I don't like being lied to.”

“That wasn't,” Adam started, disgusted at the very thought. “That was_ my mother_.” He cringed, even as the words were leaving his mouth, but was unable to stop them.

Marcia slammed the door in his face.

Adam screamed in frustration, and threw the bouquet of roses against the door. They shattered against the wood and rained down to the floor in a flurry of broken stems and petals.


	3. Treasure Hunt

**TWO MONTHS BEFORE THE WEDDING**

-*-

Yeshua woke from a dead sleep to the sound of something rustling at the end of his bed. His eyes flew wide, and he sat straight up and peered into the dim room at the figure crouched there.

“AhhhghWhowhatthefugk?” The noise that pushed its way out of his throat was a harsh and bewildered growl.

Crowley’s head popped up into the stream of light filtering in from a crack in the curtains, sunlight flashing off his sunglasses. “_What_?” he asked.

Yeshua let out a sigh and flopped back into bed. “Crowley, you scared the bejeezus out of me. What are you doing here?”

“I'm looking for Aziraphale's shoes. Have you seen them?”

“Shoes?” Yeshua blinked up at the ceiling. “What shoes?”

“Have you found more than one pair of shoes?” Crowley asked.

“No, I haven't found _any_ shoes.”

“Then why did you ask?”

Yeshua groaned. “Crowley, I was _sleeping._”

“I know that. You should see a doctor about that snoring.”

Yeshua rolled over and pulled one of the pillows over his head. “Go away,” he said, the words muffled.

“I have to find Aziraphale’s shoes.”

“_What shoes_?”

“The satin pumps he was wearing during the French Revolution. I know I put them around here somewhere.”

Yeshua flipped the pillow off his head and sat up again. “Why do you need them right now?”

“We have a fitting with the tailors this afternoon. I need to show them the shoes so that they can get the hem length on the trousers right. I'm going to give them to Aziraphale as a wedding present.”

“I thought they were _his_ shoes.”

“He doesn't know that I have them. Are you going to get up and help me look, or not? I thought that the whole reason you're here is to help with the wedding. So, _help._”

Yeshua grumbled as he got out of bed and dressed, squinting his eyes against the morning sun when Crowley threw the curtains wide.

“When was the last time you saw them?” Yeshua asked.

Crowley flushed a bit as he looked away and mumbled, “Er, 1972, I think. I sort of… _worethemtoaBowieconcert.”_

“What?” Yeshua asked.

“I wore them to a concert in the 70s okay?” Crowley asked, sounding defensive. “Not sure what I did with them after that.”

Yeshua, who didn't see why a pair of shoes should be such a big deal, said, “Well, did you look in the cupboard? I put most of the crap you left here in there.”

In point of fact, the Mayfair flat had four, very modern, walk-in closets—each tastefully hidden behind a sliding panel, so as to maintain the austere minimalist aesthetic.

All of them were very large and crammed full with Crowley's _crap._

Upon realizing the scale of the undertaking, they decided to call in reinforcements. Anathema arrived about an hour later, while they were still delving the depths of the hall cupboard.

“Well, I'm here. Are you going to let me in?” she asked from the other side of the door.

Crowley waved his hand at the pile of coats blocking the door and they shifted as far over as they could, making room to open the door just wide enough for Anathema to slip inside.

“Is this the wedding emergency?” she asked, stepping over a pile of hats and coats.

“We're trying to find Aziraphale's shoes,” Yeshua told her.

“I see. What do they look like?”

“There is one pair of shoes in this entire flat,” Crowley growled from the depths of the closet. “If you find a pair of shoes, that's them.”

“I actually have a few pairs of shoes,” Yeshua told Anathema in a somewhat calmer tone, “but I gather that these ones are special.”

“Unhuh.” Anathema shifted through the pile of coats, and pulled out something black with many silver buttons and great deal of embroidered brocade. “Don't you ever throw anything away? You could donate some of these.” She looked at the coat skeptically. “Maybe to a theatre troupe.”

“You never know when something is going to come back into fashion again,” Crowley said, stepping over the piles of clothing as he came out of the closet. He waved a hand at everything and it all crammed itself back inside, and the door closed with a strained groan. “They aren't in here. Let's try the one in the bedroom.”

The cupboard in the bedroom was even worse. It was almost as big as Aziraphale and Crowley's bedroom back at the Soho flat. It had already been pretty full when Yeshua had moved in, but once he'd packed away everything else that Crowley had left behind, well… walk-in was no longer an accurate description of the space.

“Have you heard of Marie Kondo?” Anathema asked, staring at the wall of possessions that met them behind the unassuming door.

“_Unfortunately_,” Crowley answered. “Aziraphale calls her the book Nazi.”

“Who is Marie Kondo?” Yeshua asked.

“She's this organizational guru,” Anathema said, “and I think she'd have a heart attack if she saw _this_.”

“She says you're only supposed to own 30 books,” Crowley said. “You can imagine how well that idea went down with Aziraphale.”

“She doesn't actually say that you can only have 30 books; she just suggests that as a number. The point is to declutter your life by only keeping the things that spark joy.” Anathema gestured at the mess before them. “This isn't sparking joy. More like inducing panic.”

“Just help me find the blasted shoes and keep your opinions on my organizational system to yourself.”

“This isn’t an organizational system. This is a closeted hoarding problem.”

Half an hour later, they’d moved most of the boxes out into the bedroom, and Anathema was going through them while Yeshua and Crowley sorted through what was left.

“This is like an archeological dig,” Anathema said. “The deeper you go, the older everything is.” She pulled out a pager in a little leather holder with a belt clip, a grey brick of a mobile phone with an external antenna, and a copy of Oasis’s _(What’s the Story) Morning Glory?_ on compact disc. “I think I’m somewhere in the 90s.”

Crowley glanced over. “You have another couple decades to go. Come back to me when you find leather trousers, glitter, and vinyl records.”

Anathema tossed the obsolete electronics and the Oasis CD back into the box and folded the top closed. “Why isn’t Adam helping with this? Digging through old crap is his specialty.”

“He’s still wallowing in self-pity,” Crowley said. “Anyway, he’s Aziraphale’s best man, not mine. You two are the ones that are supposed to be helping me.”

“Wallowing in self pity?”

“Some girl broke up with him,” Crowley said.

“Marcia,” Yeshua added. “He’s taking it pretty hard. He ran off to Canada for a few weeks, and wasn’t taking anyone’s calls.”

“Why Canada?” Anathema asked.

“He’s looking for a mate for his dinosaur,” Yeshua explained. “Dilly deserves love, _apparently_.”

“Did he find another eustra-whatever-it-is?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Aziraphale gave him a couple wedding invitations to deliver Downstairs, yesterday,” Crowley said. “He’s probably still in Hell.”

-*-

Adam _was_ in Hell, physically, if not metaphorically-- though the second was still up for debate. Specifically, he was in The Infernal Library, looking for a book by Othniel Charles Marsh, while Azazel pestered him about Marcia.

“Why don’t you let me talk to her,” Azazel was saying. “I’m sure that if I just explained that I _actually am_ your mother—”

“She’s not going to believe that,” Adam said, cutting him off.

“It’s easy enough to prove. I’ll just show her a bit of horn, a flash of wing,” Azazel gave his wings a flap. “Or better yet, invite her down for dinner. I’m sure that if we just explained everything, she’d understand.”

“Explain what? That I’m the son of Satan? Oh _yeah_, I’m sure she’ll want to date me then. Who wouldn’t want to date the Antichrist?”

“I’m sure the Satanists have singles mixers,” Lucifer put in, helpfully, from his leather armchair on the other side of the room. “Go to one of those, and you can have your pick.”

“I’m done with dating for a while,” Adam said. “I’m just going to finish my master's thesis and get through the wedding.”

“You can’t go to a wedding without a date,” Azazel said. “It’s depressing.”

“Maybe he’ll meet someone at the wedding,” Lucifer suggested.

“Well, there’s an idea. You wouldn’t have to worry about explaining yourself there, and everyone single is always looking to hook-up at a wedding. Any eligible possibilities on the guest list?”

Adam groaned.

-*-

“I think I found them,” Anathema yelled, suddenly.

Crowley was out of the cupboard in an instant, and at her side.

“Are these what you’re looking for?” she asked, holding up the pair of satin pumps.

Crowley snatched them up, and held them reverently. “Finally. Where were they?”

Anathema sifted through the other contents of the box. She pulled out a feathered boa, several cases of glittery makeup, and a pair of silver lame trousers. “I’m not sure that I know how to answer that question. Did you have a drag phase that we don’t know about?”

“It was 1972,” Crowley said, defensively. “Glam rock, it was a whole… _thing_. The music was fantastic. The fashion was… maybe a bit _avant-garde._”

“I’ll say,” Anathema said, holding up the trousers. “Do you think _these_ will be coming into style again, anytime soon?”

“You never know,” Crowley said, looking embarrassed.

“Do they spark joy, because from where I’m standing, the only thing these should be sparking is shame.”

“I’ll have you know, I look fantastic in those. They sparked a great deal of joy, for a great many people, in their time.”

“Almost sixty years ago? I think it’s time to let them go, Crowley.”

“You are not Marie Kondo-ing my flat, Anathema! Thank you for your help, but I like my things how they are.”

“It’s my flat now,” Yeshua said, “and honestly, I wouldn’t mind the storage space. She has a point; you’re probably never going to wear most of this stuff ever again.”

Crowley held up the shoes. “I’ve held onto these for a couple centuries, and Azirphale’s going to wear them for our wedding. If I’d just thrown them out, he’d be walking down the aisle in a pair of boring, tan oxfords.” Crowley glanced at his watch. “Speaking of, I need to be at the tailors in half an hour, so I’d better get going.”

“Aren’t you going to help us clean any of this up?” Yeshua asked, as Crowley headed for the door, shoes in hand.

Crowley waved a hand behind him, and a couple century’s worth of fashion piled itself haphazardly back into the closet—even less neatly than before. The door wouldn’t even close this time. A pile of shirts in various shades of paisley spilled out of the doorway like sartorial, hippy vomit.

The front door slammed in Crowley’s wake, and Yeshua and Anathema were left alone with the mess.

“Well, what do we do now?” Yeshua asked.

“It’s your flat.” Anathema gestured at the mess. “Does any of that spark joy?”

“Er,” Yeshua said, uncertainly. “No?”

“Then we say thank you, and chuck it in the bin. How do you feel about having a walk-in cupboard that you can actually walk into?”

-*-

Aziraphale was just walking to the door of the tailor’s shop when Crowley pulled up in the Bentley. He smiled and waved, and Crowley gave him a quick return gesture as he wiggled out of his jacket. Crowley wrapped it around the shoes, to hide them from Aziraphale, and tucked the bundle under one arm, as he got out of the Bentley and went to the door of the shop.

Aziraphale’s eyes locked onto it immediately. “What’s that you have there, my dear?”

“Nothing. ‘Sss just my jacket. Bit warm for it today.”

“Why don’t you leave it in the car then? You shouldn’t wad it up like that. It will wrinkle.”

“Naw, I’ll hold onto it. I was going to have it taken in a bit while we’re here.”

“Taken in?” Aziraphale frowned. “That jacket fits perfectly. You haven’t lost weight, have you? Really, Crowley, you should eat more.”

“It’s fine, angel. Don’t worry about it. Come on. If you keep dithering on the doorstep, we’re going to be late for our appointment.” Crowley held the door open for him.

Aziraphale gave him a concerned look before stepping inside.

Crowley waited until Aziraphale was busy being measured to take the head tailor aside and show him the shoes, explaining what he needed.

The tailor held one up to look at, a strained smile on his face. “If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.”

“I’ll give the hem a couple of extra inches, but I can’t guarantee the drape will be just right, without Mr. Fell wearing them for a fitting. It’s an unusual choice to wear with that suit-- any suit, really. I’m not sure that—”

“Just do the best you can,” Crowley, said hurriedly. “But, don’t let him see them. I’ll leave the shoes with you for now. Hide them somewhere until we leave.”

The tailor nodded uncertainly, but took the shoes gingerly between thumb and forefinger-- glaring at them disapprovingly as he took them into the shop’s back room.

Crowley walked back over to where Aziraphale stood, having his measurements taken.

“Did you ask him about your jacket?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah, I think you’re right though. It fits fine as it is.”

The assistant tailor finished measuring Aziraphale’s inseam, and jotted down a few numbers on his notepad before moving on to slide his measuring tape around Aziraphale’s thigh. “Which side do you dress to, Mr. Fell,” he asked.

“The left,” Aziraphale said, with a pleased tone of confidence, and a bright smile on his face.


	4. Old Friends

**ONE WEEK BEFORE THE WEDDING **

**-*-**

“Are you sure that you don't want to do it all together?” Aziraphale asked, as he fretted in the bookshop, waiting for Adam to pick him up for the stag night.

“It completely defeats the point if we do it together,” Crowley said. “You're supposed to have one last wild night of being single before you tie the knot.”

“I've never had a wild night of being single,” Aziraphale protested.

“Well, one first wild night of being single then.”

“I don't consider myself single now. This is a ridiculous tradition. We're getting married in a week. What sort of precedent does it set if we start our marriage with a night of debauchery?”

Crowley laughed. “I think you're overreacting. Adam _has_ met you, you realize. I'm sure that he doesn't have anything too wild planned. Relax. Don't worry so much. It will be fun.”

“_Fun_,” Aziraphale repeated, as though the whole concept was distasteful. “Where is Yeshua taking you, then?”

Crowley shrugged. “No idea, probably a strip club.”

“And I'm not supposed to worry?”

Crowley pulled Aziraphale in close, cupping his neck with one hand, while the other wrapped around his waist. Aziraphale leaned into the touch, but Crowley waited to speak until Aziraphale met his eyes.

“Believe me, angel. You have nothing to worry about. It's just a bit of fun. Six thousand years, and you're still the only one for me.”

“Well, I should hope so, after all the work I've put in."

Crowley’s hands fell away instantly. “All the work _you've _put in?”

Aziraphale smirked. “Well, it isn't easy—_tempting a demon_.”

Crowley kissed him then; he couldn't help it. His ridiculous angel, with that smug little smile on his face, just begging to be called out on his nonsense.

They broke away as there was a knock on the door.

Crowley’s tongue flicked out to lick at his lips. “That'll be your ride.” He smirked. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

“I find the idea of anything that could possibly be on that list, utterly daunting.”

“_Have fun_.”

“This is a nightmare,” Aziraphale grumbled as he opened the door.

Adam stood there, waiting, in a three piece suit. Aziraphale blinked at him a few times. He'd never seen him so well-dressed before, and it made him instantly suspicious.

“Ready to go?” Adam asked brightly.

“Where are we going?”

“It's a surprise.”

“I hate surprises.”

“You _love_ surprises,” Crowley said, giving him a little push out the door. “Go on. Have fun. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Aziraphale could hear him laughing as he closed the door behind him.

There was a stretch limousine parked at the curb, behind Crowley's Bentley. Aziraphale assumed that it had been a Citroen earlier in the day. Pepper stood holding the door, wearing a bedazzled, purple, chauffer’s uniform that was a little too low cut to be strictly professional—not to mention, entirely too shiny.

“Good to see you again, Miss Moonchild,” Aziraphale said. “You've… grown.”

“Look,” Pepper said sternly. “I'm playing chauffeur tonight as a favor for Adam. I'm even wearing this stupid costume, but call me Miss Moonchild again, and I'm putting you straight into the Thames.”

“Uh,” Aziraphale said, flustered.

“Ease up, Pep,” Adam said, clapping her on the shoulder. “You know you love the costume.”

“I like the boots,” she said, grudgingly, and spun on the knee-high, purple platforms to go to the driver's side of the limousine.

“She hasn't changed much,” Aziraphale observed.

Adam cocked his head to the side. “I dunno. Ten years ago, I never would have gotten her into that getup.” The limousine’s engine revved, and Adam grimaced. “Still, best get in before she leaves without us.”

Aziraphale climbed into the limo, and found himself sat beside Madame Tracy—dressed in a floor length, sequined, red, cocktail dress.

“Mr. Aziraphale!” she greeted happily, raising a full glass of champagne to him in a toast. “We started a bit without you, I'm afraid. Let me get you a glass of bubbly.”

And then he found a crystal flute pressed into his hand, and he relaxed into the seat, thinking that it might not be such a terrible evening after all.

The feeling lasted approximately fifteen minutes, until the limousine pulled to a stop outside a disturbingly familiar building—one that looked like it might be the headquarters of a financial institution, but most definitely wasn't.

“Please tell me that you aren't hosting this little bacchanal down in Hell,” Aziraphale begged, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Adam laughed. “No, and before you ask, we're not having your stag night in Heaven either. This is just a pit stop. Come on.”

“I'll just wait here,” Madame Tracy said, pouring herself another glass of champagne. “You boys go on ahead.”

Aziraphale still couldn't help the feeling of trepidation as he followed Adam into the building, and they stood in front of the escalators. Adam pulled out his mobile and checked the time.

“They should be here any minute,” he said.

Aziraphale eyed the escalator warily. He wasn’t overly surprised when the down escalator reversed its course, a moment later, and Azazel appeared, riding up.

It seemed that Adam had invited his infernal parents along for Aziraphale’s stag night.

Except, when Azazel stepped off the escalator to reveal the figure riding up behind him, it wasn't Lucifer, and Aziraphale’s heart stopped.

His breath caught in his chest, and the name on his lips came out as barely a whisper. “_Oscar_.”

Physically, there were no signs of whatever had befallen Oscar Wilde over the last century; he looked the hale and hearty thirty-five that he’d been when Aziraphale had first met him. He was dressed handsomely in a plum velvet suit that complimented his colouring, but there was something in his eyes that unsettled Aziraphale. It was the same hollow look that he’d had when he’d been released from prison. A weight of weariness and torment lay within the depths of those heavy-lidded eyes.

“Aziraphale,” he said in that same breathless, amazed, whisper, as he closed the distance between them.

There were tears shining on both of their cheeks, as they embraced. Aziraphale clung tightly to him, pressing his face into the plush lapel of Oscar’s jacket. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m spoiling your jacket, but it is so _very _good to see you again, my old friend.”

“You really have no idea, cherub,” Oscar said. His voice cracked from weeping into a strangled laugh. “I’ve been informed how apt that little pet name is. Why did you never tell me, my dear?”

“Would you have believed me?” Aziraphale asked.

“Perhaps not back then,” Oscar said, “but my credulity has been stretched to include a great many things that I never would have believed possible, since last we met.”

Aziraphale pulled back, clasping Oscar’s shoulders to hold him at arms length to take a really good look at him. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I spent the first fifty years or so worrying that I might see a great many of my old friends. I was relieved that you weren’t among their number, but it seems that I never had anything to worry about. I don’t know whether I should feel angry or amused at the irony.”

“Oh, I _am_ sorry, Oscar. If there had been anything that I could have done, I would have, but it was never up to me.”

“No, I suppose not.” Oscar cleared his throat, and shook his hair back away from his face. “But, I’m here for a party. I have to tell you, nothing could have shocked me more than receiving your invitation, delivered by the hand of Lucifer himself. Even in the very depths of Hell, you, my dear, are a shining light of hope.”

Adam stood beside his mother and watched as Aziraphale turned into a big blubbering mess, and clung to Oscar Wilde like he was the only life-preserver left on the Titanic.

“I think I win the stag night,” he said, pleased. “I was expecting Beelzebub to bring him up, though. Are you planning to tag along for the party?”

“Oh, no,” Azazel said. “I wouldn’t want to ruin your fun. I think I’ll pop over and see what Jesus came up with for Crowley.”

“What time are you picking him up? Or, am I supposed to return him, after the party?"

Azazel raised his hand and snapped his fingers together. A gold slip of paper, covered in silver sigils, appeared between his still pinched forefinger and thumb. He proffered it to Adam.

“What’s this?” Adam asked, taking the card.

“One week of furlough granted to Mr. Oscar Wilde, under supervision of the Antichrist.”

Adam frowned at it. “I thought you were just letting him out for the night?”

“Do you have any idea how much paperwork it takes to get a soul released from Hell, even temporarily?” Azazel asked. “There’s no way I’m filling all of that out twice. No, he’s yours for the week. Lucifer and I will take him back with us, after the wedding. Until then, he’s your responsibility.”

Adam glanced worriedly to where Aziraphale and Oscar looked to be on the verge of snogging. “What am I supposed to do with him for a week? I’m not entirely sure that I can keep Crowley from killing him in a fit of jealous rage for a _whole week_.”

“Don’t let that happen,” Azazel advised. “I’m really not kidding about the paperwork. I don’t know if I’d be able to requisition him another body in time for the wedding, if this one is damaged. Your couch is comfortable enough. Keep him at your place. He’s used to eternal torment. Anything would be an improvement over that. I doubt he'll be much bother.”

“I guess so,” Adam said. “Though, if Crowley kills him, I don't think we’d need to worry about another body. I imagine Aziraphale would call off the wedding.”

Azazel shrugged again. “Better to look after him then.”

He pulled Adam into a hug and pressed a kiss to his cheek, as he bid his farewell, and Adam bristled at the contact—still not entirely comfortable with this new relationship that they were forging.

“Have fun, my dear,” Azazel said. “I’ll see you at the wedding. And don’t lose the playwright; I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what a mess that would be.”

Adam sighed. “Yeah, all right. See you later, mum.”

Then, Azazel was gone, and Adam was left alone, staring uncomfortably at Oscar and Aziraphale, while they wept and clutched to one another. He supposed that he might react like that if one of his friends had died and he hadn't seen them in more than a hundred years. And, yeah he was happy to be able to do this for Aziraphale, and giving Oscar Wilde a reprieve from Hell was great, but he really had no idea what he was going to do with a famous 19th century writer for a whole week.

Adam tried to look on the bright side; maybe he could get some help with editing his thesis.

“Are you two ready to go,” he asked, “or do you need a minute?”

Aziraphale pulled away from Oscar, laughing at himself as he wiped his eyes.

“Oscar, this is my young friend, Adam,” he said, gesturing to Adam. “Or have you met?”

“I haven't had the pleasure,” Oscar said, extending his hand. “Oscar Wilde.”

Adam shook it. “Adam Young. Aziraphale thinks he's funny.”

“How so?”

“_My young friend, Adam._ Adam Young…”

Oscar smiled. “Ah, yes, quite the sense of humor, our Aziraphale.”

“You aren't the only one who can be clever,” Aziraphale said with a pleased little smile.

“The world would be an unbearably dull place, were that the case,” Oscar agreed. “Am I to understand, Adam, that I have you to thank for my improved circumstances?”

Adam rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, any friend of Aziraphale's… I'll have a talk with my parents, and see what I can do about _after_.”

“Would you really?” Oscar asked, surprise clear in his voice.

“Yeah. Hell is… _hell_. No one deserves that. Well… maybe Hitler, and Edison's a real twat. Not sure about Cassius, and Judas, and all of Dad's other _special cases_, but they probably deserve it. You can't have done anything _that_ bad.”

Oscar went very still. “I'm not innocent.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “Don't give me the self-hating homo act. I don't have time for that load of shite. The world has changed since you went away. No one cares anymore. No one who isn't a complete arse, anyway. And, the ones who do, don't get away with saying anything about it. Aziraphale and Crowley are getting married next week—as two men, as far as the crown is concerned.”

“You mean, it's a legally recognized marriage?” Oscar asked, turning to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale nodded, and gave him a smile. “Some things have changed for the better, Oscar. Though, I think, they have some way to go. The Queen even gave you a posthumous pardon.”

Oscar blinked.

“So, you see,” Adam said. “England doesn't care what consenting adults get up to behind closed doors, and since God and Jesus are both coming to the wedding, I don't think Heaven much cares either. So, Hell is overdue for some restructuring.”

“You're nothing like I would expect from the Antichrist.”

“Well you're a lot taller than I thought you'd be,” Adam said, dismissively. “Enough philosophy. This is a stag night. Let's go get drunk and leer at scantily dressed go-go boys.”

“Do we have to?” Aziraphale asked. “Couldn't we just have a nice quiet dinner instead?”

“Just trust me,” Adam said.

Oscar pulled Aziraphale’s arm into his, and gave it a reassuring pat. “If the Antichrist offers you libation and displays of male beauty, I think it is best not to argue.”

“That's the kind of attitude that got you in trouble in the first place.”

“The one liberation to be found in Hell is freedom from worrying over doing the wrong thing,” Oscar told him.

When they got back into the car, for the ride to their next destination, it appeared that Madame Tracy had hit the bottle hard in their absence, and Adam figured she’d be passed out in the back of the limo before the night was half over.

She squinted drunkenly at Oscar. “Do I know you? You look so familiar. You weren’t a client were you? I never forget a…” she trailed off, and looked pointedly at Oscar’s crotch, “but after a while the faces all sort of blend together."

Adam groaned and face palmed.

“I shouldn’t think so,” Oscar said, ever polite. “I imagine that I died some time before you were ever born.”

She stared at him in intense concentration for a moment, and then brightened and snapped her fingers. “Oh! Oh, you’re Oscar Wilde!”

“At your service,” Oscar agreed.

“Are you an old friend of Aziraphale’s then? How lovely.”

Aziraphale gave him a smile and linked their arms together. “A very good friend.”

“Oh, I see,” Madame Tracy said, knowingly. “Now, you two behave yourselves. Mr. Crowley is a fine young man. We can’t have any pre-wedding shenanigans. Though, God knows I’ve been hired to entertain at enough stag nights, and I know what gents get up to when they're blowing off steam before a marriage. Sowing your wild oats, and all that.” She giggled into her glass. “_Wilde oats_.”

Oscar chuckled, a wicked smile playing across his lips. “You are utterly delightful.”

“That’s one word for it,” Adam muttered.

The limo pulled up outside an old building in Portland Place, and Pepper came around to open the door for them. Oscar and Adam had to practically pour Madame Tracy out onto the street, giggling all the while, but once out of the car she managed to find her feet.

Aziraphale stared up at the building in wonder. “How did you…?” he started, but he had to clear his throat. "This... this building was destroyed."

“Took a bit of magic,” Adam admitted. “Infernal _and_ divine. Yeshua helped. It was Crowley’s suggestion, actually. I was trying to come up with somewhere to have the party, and he said that it was a pity that your old club wasn’t around anymore.”

“I never thought I'd step foot into this place again.” Aziraphale turned that look of wonder away from the building and onto Adam instead. His eyes glistened, wet, in the light of the streetlamps. “I don't think I have the words to thank you for all of this.”

Adam shrugged, uncomfortable with the display of emotion. “It's supposed to be your night, Aziraphale. Stop crying, and let's have some fun.

-*-

Crowley took his time getting ready for the night.

Anathema and Yeshua had brought nearly everything he owned over to the Soho flat, stuffed into black bin liners, after they had ravaged his poor wardrobe. Thankfully, Yeshua's renovations to the bookshop had freed up enough space in the backroom to store several centuries’ worth of Crowley's changing taste in fashion, but he could tell that Aziraphale was starting to get testy over the encroachment into his space.

He’d have to rent a storage room somewhere. Marie Kondo could just go fuck herself.

It took him an hour of sifting through the bags to find what he wanted.

He’d prove both of those ingrates wrong.

The silver lame trousers still fit like a glove, and he ran his hands appreciatively over his tightly encased thighs. A tight black t-shirt, his leather jacket, hands brushed over his hair, a bit of a minor miracle to give him a full length of ember-red curls, a touch of glitter, and it could have been 1972 all over again.

_One last thing. _

He fetched Aziraphale’s shoes from where he had stashed them away. The lining had started to fray, and he'd sent them to the best cobbler in the city to have them re-lined with the finest blue silk, to match Aziraphale's eyes.

He took them out of their box and handled them carefully. “What do you say, boys? One last night on the town-- just the three of us?”

The scales on his feet softened and shifted as he slipped the shoes on and admired the contrast of black scales against opalescent white satin.

And, _just in time_, as there was a knock at the door.

Crowley swaggered his way, sinuously, to answer it-- heels clicking against the wooden floorboards.

He was readying a sarcastic remark, something along the lines of ‘_I told you I look fantastic in these_,’ or ‘_what would Marie Kondo say now? Am I sparking enough joy for you?_’

But, when he opened the door, it wasn't Yeshua or Anathema standing on the other side, and what came out of his mouth instead was a startled, “_Fuck me_... Freddie!”

Freddie Mercury just stood there, larger than life, and smirked back at him around that famous overbite, mustache bristling over the quirked edges of his lips. “If you like, darling, but I thought that I was here for a wedding.”


	5. Performance Anxiety

“Is he okay?” Freddie asked.

Yeshua popped his head around the edge of the doorway. He waved a hand in front of Crowley's dazed face. “I think you broke him, Freddie.”

Anathema pushed her way between Yeshua and Freddie, and smacked Crowley on the forehead.

“Bloody hell, woman!” Crowley yelled, rubbing at the small red mark she'd left. “What was that for?”

“There.” Anathema smiled. “I fixed him.”

“Surprise,” Yeshua said, waving his hands.

Crowley refocused his gaze on Freddie. “What are you doing here?”

“Well,_ Jesus Christ Superstar_, over here, said that you were marrying an angel, and that was just something I _had _to see. Besides, you know me. I've never been one to turn down a party.” Freddie gave him a long look up and down. “You look the same as ever: _sin on legs_.”

Crowley smirked. He gave Freddie an admiring look of his own. “You look good too, Freddie.”

And, he did—young, and healthy, and practically incandescent with life. Nothing like the shell he'd been in his last days; not that Crowley had been there for any of that. They hadn't been close friends by any means, though they had bumped into each other from time to time. Watching Freddie's bright light burn away on the other side of a television screen had been bad enough—seeing him look just a bit thinner, a bit more tired, a bit paler, in each consecutive interview or performance. He wouldn't have been able to bear witnessing it in person.

“All the same, no thanks,” Crowley added quickly, as the moment went on just a bit too long. “_Wedding_, you know?”

Freddie just shrugged. “I thought as much. He's a lucky fellow, your angel.”

“I’m lucky that Aziraphale is such a creature of habit. I've been around long enough for him to get used to me, so if it ever crossed his mind to trade me in for something better, I'm sure he dismissed it as too much bother.”

“Nothing like you, _I’m sure_,” Freddie said, and then, as if it were a completely unrelated subject, “I see you're still driving around in that old Bentley.”

“And I'll replace it as soon as someone figures out how to improve on perfection.”

This was a lie. Every motorist in the world could suddenly start driving around in flying cars, and Crowley would just keep rolling along on terra firma, in the Bentley. Come to think of it, he'd probably enjoy the improved traffic conditions. He might have to make flying cars his next pet project.

“Is that your angel as well then?” Freddie asked. “_Perfection_?”

“Ah well, we both got the morally-neutral, free agent, upgrade a few years back. That's made things a lot more interesting, but apart from that…. _yeah_; I think perfection is the word I'd use.”

Freddie gave a mock pout. “Give me a hug at least, then.”

Crowley was happy to oblige, wrapping his arms around his favorite musician in a tight embrace.

“It's good to see you again. The world’s been so much less…_ everything_, with you gone.”

“And Heaven hasn't been half as much fun. Though, you can imagine my surprise when I found myself _there_.” He pulled back and gave Crowley a cheeky smile.

“It beats the alternative.”

“So I'm told. And yet, you hear them say Rock and Roll Heaven has one Hell of a band, but--"

“Harp music, and celestial harmonies… and Elgar,” Crowley finished for him. “You don't have to tell me. Not that all the screaming in the pits makes for the best backing vocals either.”

“Well, it's better now that we have Bowie. Once they finish things down here, and I get my band back together, maybe we can teach the angels a thing or two about music. I mean, the seraphim have the range, but no heart. It's like listening to a computer play a symphony, all the notes are right, but there's no drama, no style, no… humanity, I guess.”

“That's the problem with angels; they're _angels_.”

“Except yours.”

“Mine's a fairy now.”

“Wasn't he always?”

Crowley shrugged. “Depends on who you ask.”

“Well,” Anathema said, raising her voice. “If you ask me, it's bloody freezing out here. Fairies, and deceased rock gods, and the Son of God might not feel the cold, but _this_ mere-mortal witch is freezing her tits off. So, if you two could stop flirting for a bit, can we get this little show on the road?”

-*-

The Hundred Guineas Club had been the port of call for the upper echelons on London society, with a particular taste, for the last couple of decades of the 19th century. It was where Aziraphale had learned to dance, where he'd really gotten to know Oscar Wilde, and it had been the place that he had felt the most included and welcomed of anywhere in his long existence. While Crowley had napped away the decades, Aziraphale had found a home here among the fashionable young gentlemen and their ever changing rotation of beautiful young companions.

Aziraphale wasn't completely blind to the true purposes of the establishment’s clientele. He knew what sorts of things went on after the lights went out, but what Oscar, Lord Alfred Douglas, Prince Eddy, and the others got up to behind closed doors had been their own business. It hadn't even particular peaked Aziraphale’s interest. Rutting together in whatever configurations they could come up with had always been part of human nature—ever since Adam and Eve first discovered that they their bodies fit together, in the garden. Aziraphale had never seen what all the fuss was about, and hadn't had any real desire to find out.

No, what he had liked most about his club in Portland Place was the easy camaraderie of like-minded gentlemen. It was that sense of coming to a place where you didn't have to hide. And, if the other members had a different secret than himself, or if he never actually came out and said, “_The thing is, gents. I'm not actually a fairy; I'm an angel. We don't go in for all that business with genitalia, you see_,” what did that matter? And, maybe if Crowley hadn't been so busy sulking, and they'd sorted themselves out a bit sooner, he'd have been happy making use of one of the rooms upstairs. Since, as it turned out, he might have had the same secret as the rest of them, after all-- at least to the perspective of the casual observer.

But, _at the time_? It had just been nice to be accepted. More than that, to be valued. Just another misfit in a club full of misfits. To dance, and laugh, and feel Oscar's easy hand on his arm, and warm breath in his ear as he leaned in to whisper some witticism.

This place had been a home for him when he needed it most. And, _damn_, if it wasn't good to be back.

The front parlor looked just as it had in the glory days: warm wood, bright brass, plush burgundy furniture, candles glowing and sparkling in the crystal chandeliers. It even smelled the same: wood polish, and pipe smoke, and old leather. He took a deep breath of perfect nostalgia.

“However did you manage this?” he asked, still unable to dampen the feeling of wonder that fluttered in his chest.

Adam shrugged. “We just made it _remember. _It was mostly Yeshua. The magic won't last long—one night only.”

“It's enough,” Aziraphale said, breathlessly. “More than enough. It seems a bit extravagant for just the five of us.”

“Oh, I have a few things planned for later. I thought we'd start off with a quiet dinner though.”

He led the way into the dining room, where a table had been set for them with the same elegant china and bright silver that Aziraphale and Oscar had both eaten from so many times before.

Aziraphale sighed in pleasure at the sight. “I'll admit that this is all a relief. I didn't think that you were serious about the barely-dressed young men, but a quiet dinner with friends will be just the thing.”

“_Well_…” Adam said, as four well-muscled men wearing tight, black, leather shorts, and not much else, came out of the kitchen—bearing silver dinner trays, and a whole lot of skin. They had little devil horns on their heads, and black wings strapped to their backs.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “_Oh, Adam.._. That's in rather poor taste.”

“I think his taste is just fine,” Madame Tracy said, appreciatively.

“I shouldn't mind a taste myself,” Oscar agreed.

The demonically costumed waiter in the front lifted the cover off his dish to reveal a plate of oysters with dill sauce.

“Oh, but that does look scrummy,” Aziraphale admitted.

Adam laughed. “You’re the only one I can imagine saying scrummy, un-ironically.”

“He’s the only one I can imagine saying scrummy, and meaning the oysters,” Oscar added in an undertone, and Adam bit back a laugh.

-*-

"How did you arrange this?” Crowley asked Yeshua, as he locked up the shop. “I mean, I know that Adam was springing Wilde for the party, but I'm surprised you'd risk your Father's wrath, after all that business at the museum, to ask for this kind of favor.”

Yeshua shrugged. “He's not happy, but if He really wanted me back in Heaven, it isn't like I could do anything about it. I think He expects me back after the wedding, though.”

“Of course, He would know that isn't your intent.”

“What I intend, and what He expects, haven't ever exactly been similar.” Yeshua said, as they walked over to the Bentley. He paused with his hand on the handle of the door. “Like I said, if Dad _really _wants me back, there won't be anything that I can do about it, so I might as well ride the wave while I can.”

Crowley grimaced. “It's _The Fall_ I'm worried about.”

“I'm The Son; what's He going to do to _me_?” Yeshua asked, with a rhetorical air of dismissal.

“I imagine Lucifer thought something along those same lines. I know that I certainly never thought I'd be thrown down for asking a few questions.”

“Were the questions about animals?” Yeshua asked, “because… I could maybe understand the impulse...”

“Fuck off.”

Yeshua just gave him that messiah smile, and got into the car.

“He might have a point,” Freddie said, as he slid into the passenger seat. “I remember this one time that you went on a drunken rant about koalas for twenty minutes.”

“Koalas are ridiculous!” Crowley said, but Freddie had closed the door before he could make a proper argument. He turned his attention to Anathema, for lack of a better audience. “They all have Chlamydia, and the eucalyptus they eat is poisonous and makes them stoned all the time. _Excuse me_ for pointing out a few design flaws.”

“Is that really why you got thrown out of Heaven?” Anathema asked. “Asking stupid questions about animal design?”

“No, of course not,” Crowley said, not meeting her eyes. “There was a rebellion; I got caught up with the wrong crowd.”

“It was over the legless lizard, wasn't it?” Anathema asked, eyebrow arched. “Lucifer said, ‘God has it all wrong, we should start a rebellion,’ and you said,” Anathema imitated Crowley's voice, giving it a drunken slur, “Cor, looka tha poor lizard over there. Wasss She thinkin? Didn' even give it any legsss. Poor thing's just a snake with identity issues now. She has to be stopped.”

“Just get in the car, witch,” Crowley grumbled.

There was something wrong with the Bentley.

Just as Crowley had been about to pull out into traffic, the engine died, and they came to a jolting stop with the front tires already pulled into the road. Crowley cursed, and tried starting the engine again, but the Bentley was in the midst of a complete breakdown, and didn’t respond.

The moment Freddie’s hand had touched the door handle, the Bentley had recognized him, and given a little shudder on its leaf springs. If it had been running, the radio would have uncontrollably started blurting out lyrics about hands on grease guns, and pumping pistons, when Freddie slid inside. Fortunately, the car was spared the indignity. Instead, it just had a moment of, completely unnoticeable, mechanical flailing under the bonnet, as Freddie’s bum nestled into the conforming leather and cushion of the seat.

But, then Crowley had turned the key in the ignition, and all the Bentley could do was flood its carburetor—embarrassingly wet in the panties. It tried to compensate, sucking in air in heavy breaths, but the cylinders were all flooded, and the ignition stuttered and stopped, as the engine failed and spluttered like the heaving bosom of an overwrought heroine in a harlequin romance novel. Defeated, the Bentley gave up; the engine died, and the car shook as the reverberation of the engine left it in a wave of shame.

“What's wrong?” Yeshua asked, leaning forward.

“I don't disagree that it looks cool,” Freddie said, “but wouldn't you rather have something more reliable. Your perfect car wasn't working the last time you tried to give me a ride either.”

“There's nothing wrong with my car,” Crowley growled. “It's just… _performance anxiety_.” He leaned forward over the steering wheel to whisper to the dash. “Come on now, you’re embarrassing both of us.”

The Bentley tried again. Proper amounts of fuel and air through the intake, mix them just right in the carburetor, spark of the ignition, bit of internal combustion, firing on all cylinders. Okay… _five_ cylinders, bit of a miss there,… _not too bad_. That would be all right. Five out of six was fine. It was enough to be getting on with. The engine rattled.

“It still doesn’t sound very good,” Yeshua said, uncertainly, as Crowley got the car rolling again.

“Maybe we should just get a cab,” Freddie suggested.

The engine roared.

“We don’t need a cab. Just give it a minute to calm down.” Crowley reached for the stereo toggle, and flipped it on. There was half a beat of music, and then the car went silent. He frowned, and flipped the switch again. It clicked back down the moment he let go. “You’re being ridiculous,” he muttered, and this time held the switch in place after he flipped it. It pushed against his fingers, straining toward the OFF position, until Crowley finally let go, and it made a resolute click as it snapped down.

“STOP!”

Crowley glanced up at the road and had to lock up the brakes to avoid smashing them right into the back of a stopped lorry.

“Just, concentrate on driving,” Freddie commanded, as the lorry started moving again, and Crowley swerved around it. “I’ll take care of the radio.”

Crowley watched out of the corner of his eye as Freddie flipped the switch, and it stayed on this time.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” A low buzzing came from where the speakers would be, if the Bentley had them.

Freddie tried to adjust the dials on the stereo. The sound changed pitch and volume, but remained an indistinguishable buzzing.

“I think it’s broken,” Freddie said.

“It isn’t _broken_,” Crowley gritted out. “It’s just—”

“_Under Pressure_,” Freddie’s voice sang out in a brief blip from the nonexistent speakers.

“A fan,” Crowley grumbled.

“Of me?” Freddie asked, skeptically. He set a hand on the dash.

The headlights flashed.

-*-

“I suppose they are rather nice to look at,” Aziraphale admitted, halfway through dinner, as one of the waiters leaned over him to deposit a glass filled with some kind of red and orange, blended cocktail. “You didn’t need to go to so much expense to hire them though, Adam.”

“That’s the best part,” Adam said, chuckling into his glass before he took a sip. He set it down again, licking his lips before handing over the punch line. “We put everything on Yeshua’s charge card.”

Aziraphale, just tasting his own drink, spit it out in his surprise. “You did _what_?”

Adam smirked. “Heaven gave them a very generous tip.”

“Oh, Adam, that’s…” Aziraphale was unable to come up with the right word to encompass all of the things _that_ was.

Oscar, ever the wordsmith, came to his rescue, “Brilliant.” He raised his glass to Adam in admiration, and Adam returned the salute.

Another one of the waiters came around and slipped straws into each of their glasses. Aziraphale was about to try his drink, again, when he froze with the glass just lifted from the table, and stared at the end of his straw. “Adam, why is there a tiny purple phallus in my drink?”

“Penis straws are a mandatory part of this whole thing.”

“You have to be joking.” Aziraphale set his glass down.

“It's true," Pepper agreed.

“Just give it a good suck, Aziraphale,” Adam suggested.

“I _most certainly_ will not.”

“I’m sure Mr. Wilde could give you a few pointers.” Madame Tracy giggled, as she had a bit of trouble mustering the coordination necessary to find the end of her own straw.

“It’s been a while,” Oscar said, looking down at his own tiny magenta penis. “But, I think I recall how it’s done.”

Oscar proceeded to do something lewd to his straw, while Aziraphale looked on in shock, and Adam wished he would have brought a pen and paper to take notes. Even Madame Tracy learned a thing or two.

-*-

They were all relieved when Crowley pulled the Bentley to a stop at the curb outside the address that Yeshua had given him, and they got out of the car.

“I never thought that I’d have to worry about the car that I was riding in spontaneously combusting in a fit of star struck embarrassment,” Anathema said.

“It’s rather flattering really.” Freddie blew the Bentley a kiss.

“And all this,” Anathema continued, gesturing at her three companions. “My family made their fortune by taking stock market advice from a 17th century witch. I spent most of my life studying and interpreting a four hundred year old book of prophecy. I helped avert the apocalypse. My life has been pretty strange, so far. But, right now, _right at this moment_. I'm at a gay bachelor party for a former demon, with Jesus Christ and Freddie Mercury.” She let out a disbelieving little chuckle. “I think it would be safe to say, that this is the strangest moment of my life.”

There was a moment of silence as all of that really sunk in.

It was broken as Azazel chose that moment to land right beside Anathema-- like a big drama queen. 


	6. Someone's Idea of a Good Time

Azazel snapped his wings away and regarded the shrieking mortal woman with detached amusement. “You can stop screaming now.”

He wasn't expecting her to punch him. It hit solidly into his shoulder, and he took a step back, frowning at her, and then looking accusingly to Crowley.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she said.

Azazel sniffed. “I doubt that.”

“What do you want, Azazel?” Crowley asked, sounding annoyed.

“Just handed Wilde off to Adam, but I thought your side would have the better party.”

“I don't think that anyone invited you to either party. You're crashing.”

Azazel frowned. “Don't be like that. We're all friends.” He glanced at Anathema. “Except her. She's mean.”

“Who _are_ you?” Anathema asked.

“I'm Azazel. Old friend of Crowley's.”

“We're not friends,” Crowley protested.

“Wait… Azazel?” Anathema looked him up and down. “You're Adam's _mum_?”

Azazel smiled and held out a hand. “That's right… _mostly._”

“I'm lost,” Freddie said. “Who is Adam?”

“The Antichrist,” Crowley said.

Freddie puzzled that through for a moment. “So this fellow is his mum, and his dad is…”

“Lucifer, yes,” Crowley confirmed.

Freddie's eyebrows rose, and he whistled through his teeth. “I….” He looked Azazel up and down and smirked a little. “I think we should let him stay.”

Crowley shot Freddie a warning look.

Azazel cocked his head to the side and looked at Freddie. “Who’s this one, Crowley?” He sniffed the air. “He doesn't belong here. Has a celestial smell about him."

“_He_ was invited; _you_ don't belong here.”

“Oh, _come on_.” Freddie said, still with that worrying smirk. “Introduce us.”

Crowley heaved a put upon sigh. “Azazel, Freddie. Freddie, Azazel.”

Freddie held out a hand. “Charmed.”

Azazel took the hand, and placed a light kiss on the back.

Freddie bit his lip. “There, we're all friends now.”

“Not exactly,” Yeshua said.

Azazel rolled his eyes. “Are you still holding that temptation against me? I was just doing my job. Anyway, you were a _good boy_. Nothing for Daddy to even get mad about. Besides, I don't do that sort of thing anymore. Lucifer and I are exclusive, so you missed your chance.”

“Go away, Azazel," Crowley said, in the dead tone of someone who knew it was a lost cause but had to try anyway.

“You're really not going to let me tag along?” Azazel was honestly a bit hurt. He and Crowley had always got on well enough, at least he'd thought so, and with Adam in the picture, he'd expected a warmer welcome.

“Let him come along,” Freddie said. “He's pretty, and he can't be as bad as all that.”

“He's a demon.”

“It's just a job.”

“Fine. _Fine_. But this is on you, if it all goes horribly wrong.”

“So, I can stay?” Azazel asked hopefully.

“Until you do something to piss me off,” Crowley growled.

“That shouldn't take long,” Yeshua muttered.

-*-

Aziraphale had finished three of the red and orange drinks. Once you got past the feeling that you were performing oral sex on a tiny purple man, they were really quite lovely—tropical and fruity, with just a hint of lime.

Adam had hired a small band, with Heaven footing the bill, and they were playing softly in an alcove.

Aziraphale swayed happily to the music, as one of the waiters came over to take his freshly finished glass and offer him a replacement.

“Ah, thank you very much. Such a helpful little demon, you are,” Aziraphale said, accepting the glass. “Oooo, I've gotten a blue one this time. It's like one of those little fellows in the white hats and footed trousers.”

The waiter snickered, and Aziraphale sucked on his straw and smacked his lips together appreciatively. “What do you call this drink again?”

“It's a Bahama Mama,” the waiter said.

“Well, _it's delightful_,” Aziraphale told him. “My compliments to the barman.”

“I'll pass them along sir,” he gave a nod, “and congratulations.”

“Oh, _thank you._ You're lovely for saying so. Not that you wouldn't be lovely anyway… I mean… Rather…_Good on you_, with the muscles and everything… You must spend a great deal of time at the gymnasium to keep all of that up. No devil's food for you,” Aziraphale said, wagging a finger. He stopped, and looked at it, and then lowered the finger, smiling sheepishly. “I think I may have had a bit too much to drink,” he admitted.

The waiter pointed to where Madame Tracy was passed out on a Victorian fainting couch. “Your friend over there had too much to drink. You're doing just fine. Pace yourself a little though. The night is young, and I think your best man still has a few surprises for you. He tipped Aziraphale a wink and walked back towards the kitchen with a bit of a sway in his step.

Aziraphale had enough alcohol swimming around in his bloodstream to be able to unselfconsciously admire the view.

-*-

Yeshua led their group along a seedy alley, down a set of steps, and through a basement door with peeling red paint, into a dark club.

There was a burly, bald, bouncer, sitting at a little podium just inside the door, and they had to crowd into the small space to all fit inside.

“Do you have tickets?” he asked.

“We should have a table reserved,” Yeshua said, and gave his name.

The man checked his list at the podium, and had started to wave them through, when his eyes locked on Freddie, and his stern expression morphed into a grin. “The costume contest isn't until next weekend, but you should definitely come back for it. Wow, you look just like him.”

“Like who?” Freddie asked.

The bouncer laughed. “You sound like him too. Are you an impersonator?”

“That's me, The Great Pretender.”

The bouncer laughed. “Can you sing? You should talk to the stage manager. I bet he'd hire you to perform.”

Freddie belted out the first few lines of _Killer Queen_ while the bouncer gaped at him.

“_Damn_, I'll talk to the manager myself.”

Freddie smiled, a little sadly. “I appreciate the offer, dear, but I'm just passing through.”

The bouncer got a strange expression on his face, a flicker of recognition, like he was_ really_ seeing Freddie for the first time. It lasted just a moment, and was dismissed just as quickly, but for the rest of the night, he wouldn't be able to completely shake that odd, niggling feeling. And, years later, when he was deep in his cups, he'd swear to his mates that one night, a week before Halloween, he'd seen the ghost of Freddie Mercury.

As shabby as the outside of the club had been, the interior was the very image of sinful decadence. In the harsh light of day, it would have undoubtedly looked just as far past its prime, but in the dim glow of the lights that glittered off the sparkling costumes of the alluringly dressed staff, who fluttered from table to table with trays of drinks, the whole place seem somehow magical.

Yeshua led them to an empty, circular booth, near the stage, and they all settled in and gave their drink orders to a girl with purple pigtails and matching lipstick, whose pale, glitter dusted breasts seemed about to slip free from the confines of her, also purple, corset.

The stage took up most of the room inside, with its proscenium jutting out into the grouped tables, like the tip of an erect cock. The stage itself was currently empty, but the lights were focused on the closed curtains, ready for the next act.

Crowley was already in love.

“What exactly is this place?” he asked.

“It's a cabaret,” Yeshua said.

“Life is a cabaret,” Freddie said. “_This_ is a drag club.”

“What's the difference?” Yeshua asked.

“A meat and two veg.”

“I don't think they serve food,” Yeshua said, looking around at the other tables.

“He means the performers are men dressed as women,” Anathema explained. “Though, how he could possibly know that when they haven't started yet… Have you been here before, Freddie?”

“An assumption,” he admitted, “but all the staff that I've seen so far are in drag; I don't know why the performers wouldn't be.”

“Not the girl who took our drinks,” Anathema argued.

Freddie gave her a deeply condescending look that Crowley mirrored.

“The Adam's apple is a dead giveaway, and her package wasn't bad either,” Freddie said.

“She had tits out to here.” Anathema gestured, overdramatically, several inches in front of her own chest.

Yeshua nodded. “They were very nice.”

“They were; I'm sure he paid a lot for them.”

“Seems a lot of trouble to go to,” Azazel said. “It'd be such a bother to go through all of that every time I wanted to put on a dress.”

Yeshua glared at him.

“Oh, the fake ones are nice, but a demon decides to give you the full succubus act, and that's not good enough for you?”

Yeshua looked at him incredulously. “Are you seriously feeling hurt because I didn't fall for your temptation?”

“There's nothing wrong with taking pride in one's work. Maybe if you weren't such a thick-headed, little virgin, you would have realized what was going on, and I wouldn't have had to get so blatant about it.”

Yeshua stood up. “Are you calling a furry, pink, goat outfit subtle?”

Azazel scoffed. “Too subtle for you, apparently.”

“I just have better taste than to fall for your ham-fisted wiles.”

“I can be any flavor you want. But you missed your chance at the dessert buffet.”

“I'm missing the context here,” Freddie interrupted. “But, if you two want a room, I'm sure that we can arrange something.”

Yeshua abruptly sat down. “No, thank you,” he muttered.

Azazel just gave him a smug look.

“You can go home, if you can't behave yourself,” Crowley told Azazel.

“I didn't _do_ anything.”

Their waitress, or perhaps he preferred _waiter, _returned with their drinks. Anathema stared quite openly, without making any attempt to appear as though she wasn't.

“I told you,” Freddie said, as soon as they were alone again.

“How did I miss that?” Anathema asked.

“You weren't looking.”

“And you were?”

Freddie slouched in his seat, leaning against Crowley, and looked at her through half-lidded eyes. “Oh, honey, I'm _always _looking.”

-*-

Aziraphale was sipping his fifth Bahama Mama through a lime green erection, and listening with a silly smile on his face while Oscar told him about the rumours circulating through the pits about a certain insect-adorned demon and a particular, violet-eyed, smarmy archangel, when Adam abruptly grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into the middle of the room.

The Antichrist pushed him into a wing backed armchair, over his protests, and the band shifted from the waltz they were playing into a slinky jazz number.

“What's going on?” Aziraphale asked.

“Little surprise. Wait here.”

Adam disappeared through a side door, and Aziraphale shot Oscar a bewildered look.

Then, there was a demon stalking towards him.

Not an actual demon, of course, but one of Adam's hired pieces of eye candy. This young man was leaner than the others—built less like a bodybuilder and more like a gymnast. He wore tight, leather trousers instead of the shorts that the others had on, and his wings were larger, articulated, with the flight feathers almost brushing the floor. The wings were still quite obviously a mortal contrivance rather than the genuine article, but they were a much truer representation.

Aziraphale felt his breath catch at the intent look in the man's eyes, as he was suddenly _right there_, and he didn't even have time to protest before he was being straddled by this ersatz demon.

“For the cherub with his flaming sword is hereby commanded to leave his guard at tree of life,” he said in a low, sultry voice. “And when he does, the whole creation will be consumed, and appear infinite and holy, whereas now it appears finite & corrupt.”

Aziraphale forgot to breathe as the words resonated in the man's deep voice.

He leaned in, and Aziraphale felt his hot breath against his neck, as he said the next line against his ear.

“This will come to pass by an improvement of _sensual enjoyment._”

Oscar's voice broke the moment. “Oh, that's Blake, isn't it?”

Aziraphale's higher brain function caught up with the rest of his mind, and he realized that Oscar was right. The words did belong to William Blake, and from _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_, at that. He managed a startled little laugh. Adam really did have a cheeky sense of humour.

But then, a second demon, one he hadn't even noticed, was leaning in to whisper into his other ear, while he brought up a hand to brush gently over Aziraphale's cheek. “An Angel came to me and said: O pitiable, foolish young man! O horrible! O dreadful state! Consider the hot, burning dungeon thou art preparing for thyself to all Eternity, to which thou art going in such career.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d ever heard anyone speak of Hell in quite such a seductive tone before.

“I said,” The demon stripper continued. “Perhaps you will be willing to show me my eternal lot, and we will contemplate together upon it, and see whether your lot or mine is _most desirable_.”

Aziraphale thought that was Blake as well, but he was a little too preoccupied by the feeling of the two young men pressing their bodies against him to really remember which poem it was from.

The first demon spoke again, as he trailed a hand down Aziraphale's chest. “Once I saw a Devil in a flame of fire, who arose before an Angel that sat on a cloud, and the Devil utterd these words.”

He pulled Aziraphale's chin up, and there was a third demon standing before him.

“This flame from God's altar, this holy love-flame,  
That burns like sweet incense for ever for you,  
Might now be a wild conflagration of shame,  
Had you tortured my heart, or been base or untrue.  
For angels and devils are cast in one mould,  
Till love guides them upward, or downward, I hold.

The world makes grave errors in judging these things,  
Great good and great evil are born in one breast.  
Love horns us and hoofs us - or gives us our wings,  
And the best could be worst, as the worst could be best.  
You must thank your own worth for what I grew to be,  
For the demon lurked under the angel in me.”

And that, well _that _was most certainly not Blake, though Aziraphale’s capacity for poetry appreciation was somewhat dampened by the two men still draping their bodies over him, and stroking his neck and chest. One of them squeezed his thigh, and he let out an involuntary squeak.

And, this… _this_ was the sort of thing that Aziraphale had been dreading about tonight: lap dances, and strip teases, and gauche displays of nudity, with a sleazy backbeat, and the smell of overwrought male hormones in the air.

But, _well…_this wasn't _that_ exactly. This was whispers of love poetry, and the brush of feathers over his skin, the sound of soft jazz, the smell of wood polish, old leather, and pipe smoke, in the candlelit rooms of The Hundred Guineas Club-- while Oscar made lewd insinuations and gave literary analysis in the same breath.

Aziraphale couldn't help but enjoy himself a little.

-*-

On the other side of the city, Crowley was watching the campiest rendition of _Centerfold_ that had ever been performed.

The drag queen with the microphone was wearing a costume that Azazel would have felt right at home in—something along the lines of a demonic dominatrix. She sang, “My blood runs cold. My memory has just been sold. My angel is the centerfold. Angel is the centerfold,” while strutting around several stools that hosted the posing forms of the other performers—wearing white lingerie, fluffy angel wings, and golden halos.

Crowley turned to question Yeshua about the song choice, and saw that the Son of God had his face buried in his hands with a red blush working up his neck and cheeks.

“What--" Crowley started, but that was as far as he got.

“Adam! This was all Adam! I didn't know what to do. How am I supposed to know how to plan a 21st century stag night? Adam said he would take care of it. He said, _don't worry_. He said he knew just the thing. I had no idea that he put all of this together. He just said that he booked us a table at a cabaret club. He didn't say anything about…_this!”_ Yeshua gestured desperately at the stage.

Crowley bit back a smile, and clapped Yeshua on the back. “It's perfect.”

Yeshua looked from Crowley to the stage and back again. “Really? You don't think it's over the top?”

“Completely over the top,” Crowley agreed. “That's kind of the whole point.

And, by the time the star performer transitioned from _Centerfold_ to Ertha Kit's _I want to be Evil_, they were all laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last poetry excerpt is from Ella Wilcox’s "Angel or Demon." The rest of it is all from William Blake’s "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell." I did cobble a few different passages together, not in order, and out of context, to make them work thematically.  
The whole strippers reading poetry thing was inspired by Neil Gaiman’s bachelor party. He wrote a whole journal post about it, that I read somewhere around the time that he married Amanda Palmer. I was going to link it here, but I can’t find it. (If anyone happens to know the link, put it in a comment, and I’ll fix this.) But, basically Jason Webley took him out for sushi and then brought him to a brothel where a bunch of “ladies of the night” read poetry to him, and I just thought that would be the perfect thing for Aziraphale.
> 
> EDITED TO ADD: I still haven't found the journal entry, but here's a [video](https://youtu.be/VjwHelY1MWc) that CynSyn found of Neil and Jason talking about the bachelor party.


	7. It Isn't Easy Being the Responsible Adult

Adam sank down into a plush couch beside Pepper and let out a sigh. It was going on midnight, and he felt somewhat pathetic for being ready to call it a night already, but he hadn't imbibed quite as much alcohol as the others, and he was used to getting up early for class.

“They seem to be enjoying themselves,” Pepper said, gesturing to where Aziraphale and Oscar were trying to teach the strippers how to gavotte.

And, they definitely _were_ strippers. Adam had hired them from an agency that supplied a certain kind of entertainment for private parties, and hen nights-- or stag nights, if you were _that sort_. Adam had been very explicit with his instructions to the agency though, and none of the men were meant to be taking off anything below the waist. All he'd wanted from them was drink and dinner service, some poetry, and maybe a bit of dancing, if it turned into that kind of party.

He watched as Aziraphale drunkenly coached them through switching partners and a high kick.

Adam didn't think that this was the type of dancing that any of them had had in mind.

“They’re ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head.

“I think it looks like fun,” Pepper said, getting unsteadily up on her platform boots to join the angel, a true member of the Dead Poet's Society, and half a dozen very expensive strippers.

Adam took out his mobile to take a few pictures. He chose the best of them and sent it to Yeshua with a text.

**Aziraphale seems to be enjoying himself. How are things on your end?**

It didn't take long for the response.

**You left out a few things when you explained what you had planned for tonight.**

Adam started typing a response when his mobile buzzed again.

**Did you know this was a drag club?**

**Of course**, Adam replied.

There was a longer pause, then:

**Crowley is having fun. They're onstage.I think everyone has had too much to drink.**

**Who's onstage? Crowley?**

**And Freddie… and your mother.**

Adam frowned at his mobile.

**Doing what exactly?**

**They're reenacting the beginning of that music video for I Want To Break Free.**

**PICS OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN!**

Adam waited for a long moment until his phone buzzed again. He wasn't disappointed. There was Freddie in his pink sweater, black skirt, and bobbed wig—complete with trademark mustache. Crowley wore the pink negligee and fuzzy bunny slippers. Azazel seemed to have slightly missed the whole point of the thing and had just manifested as female, but she looked to be having a good time in her schoolgirl uniform.

Looking from the pictures that Yeshua had sent, to Aziraphale dancing with Oscar and the strippers—Pepper trying very hard, and failing, to kick higher than the extremely flexible man on her left, Adam felt the pride of a job well done.

-*-

“Can I drive?” Freddie asked, as they stepped back out onto the street.

Crowley deliberated. He thought there was a 50/50 chance that the Bentley would spontaneously combust if Freddie put his hands on the wheel, but it was an almost absolute certainty that the car would never forgive him if he denied the request.

“If it gets weird, don't say that I didn't warn you,” Crowley said as he handed over the keys.

There was a tense moment after they had all buckled their seatbelts, both literally and metaphorically, and Freddie inserted the key into the ignition.

It was followed by a collective sigh of relief when the engine started instantly—purring into a sedate idle.

“That's it dear,” Freddie said to the car in a purr of his own. “Give us a smooth ride.”

The Bentley had been prepared this time—had been waiting for them, ready to run through the series of functions that started with the turn of the key and ended with a fully functioning internal combustion engine running at peak performance. 

The fact that Freddie hadn't bothered with switching on the ignition, energizing the coils, adjusting the hand throttle, or pressing the starter button was hardly a concern. Crowley never bothered with any of that either, and the Bentley was happy enough to roar to life with just the turn of the key. It may be a classic, but it could be hip with the times-- especially if it was Freddie Mercury behind the wheel.

It hadn't been ready for Freddie Mercury to grab the gear stick, like he knew just what he was doing, take the wheel, and _drive_.

They raced into the foggy London night. Freddie’s feet pumped as he shifted seamlessly from first, to second, to third. The Bentley hit top gear with an engine roar of ecstasy, and a racing heartbeat of 3500rpm, as it gave out the full power of each and every one of its 160 horses.

Freddie hung tight to the wheel, and laughed in delight at the feeling of power under his control, as the Bentley responded to his slightest touch.

Crowley felt an overwhelming surge of empathy for Aziraphale as words he had never thought he'd utter left his mouth. “You’re going too fast!”

-*-

“The Hundred Guineas Club has a little tradition when the clock strikes two,” Oscar said, raising his voice into a clearer tone of oration than Adam would have thought possible, given how much they had all been drinking. He stood by the bar, to address everyone in the room, but his eyes were fixed on Aziraphale. “If you're still downstairs when the lights go off at the final strike of the hour, any man who finds you in the dark can have his wicked way with you.

“Now, our Aziraphale, dear, sweet, innocent cherub that he is, has never once treaded these floor boards at such an inappropriate hour. Trust me; I would have noticed.”

Oscar leered at him, and Aziraphale turned pink and smiled sheepishly.

“But, oh my,” Oscar said, with a theatrical tone that suggested he'd only just noticed something. “Would you _look _at the _time…_”

He'd timed it perfectly, and the clock started to chime the hour.

Adam smiled approvingly. He had been planning to do this bit himself, but at the last moment, inspiration had struck, and he'd put Oscar up to it instead. He was very glad that he had.The man was quite obviously used to commanding an audience, and while Adam had been inspired and intrigued by this little tidbit of history from the club, Oscar had lived it.

The grandfather clock finished its second chime, Adam snapped his fingers, and every light in the building went out.

“Oh, I think this is a step too far,” Aziraphale said into the darkness, his body frozen with a kind of dread. “There are ladies present.”

“Rules are rules,” Oscar said, closer than he had been when the lights went out.

“I'd hardly call a five second warning informed consent.”

“I don't think they have anything to worry about, and you know well enough what happens when the lights go out. It isn't my fault if you lost track of time. _Anyone_ could find you here in the dark.”

“_Oscar_… I'm flattered, really, but…” He took a step back, feeling blindly around him, unsure of his position in the darkness.

It wasn’t Oscar that spoke next. There was another voice in the dark, singing softly.

_“I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things_.”

Aziraphale halted his retreat at the familiar voice, a flood of relief and joy washing over him. “Crowley?”

“_We can do the tango just for two.”_

Oscar laughed gently as he stepped away from Aziraphale, his part played.

“_I can serenade, and gently play on your heartstrings. Be your Valentino. Just for you_,” Crowley sang the last softly into his ear, as Aziraphale felt him slip one arm around his waist, while he set his other hand lightly over Aziraphale’s belly and nuzzled into his neck—breath warm and smelling of alcohol.

“I thought you said it defeated the point if we were together tonight,” Aziraphale said.

“If you'd rather sit on Wilde's _hot seat of love_, I can go back to the drag club.”

“You're the only one I want to go romancing with,” Aziraphale said, melting into him.

“Then _take me back to yours; that will be fine_.”

“What? _Upstairs?”_

“Be my _good old fashioned lover boy_.”

“Oh, well, in that case, _say the word, your wish is my command._” Aziraphale said the line in that mocking, sing-song voice he used when he wasn't entirely sure if he was making a joke.

Crowley flicked a hand up at the chandelier, and the candles there lit again, casting the room into light.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as he saw Crowley for the first time. “You're all sparkly.”

“It's glitter.” Crowley swiped a finger across his cheek and then from the bridge of Aziraphale's nose to the tip, depositing little flecks of glitter that sparkled in the candlelight. “One of my better creations. The stuff is like herpes—never goes away, just gets passed around.”

“_What_?” Aziraphale’s hands shot up to cup his nose.

Crowley laughed and kissed him on the cheek, leaving behind more glitter. “You agreed to marry me. What's yours is mine, and what's mine is yours. That includes metallic-based, pseudo-venereal diseases that I may, or may not, have picked up from drag queens on the stag night.”

Aziraphale dropped his hands from his nose and squinted at him. “You're joking.”

“Oh no, not at all. We'll both be finding this stuff in awkward places for the next month, but come upstairs with me, and I'll show you how fun it is to spread it around.”

Crowley drew Aziraphale willingly enough toward the base of the staircase. When they reached it, Crowley called over his shoulder, “This one is mine, but best of luck.” He snapped his fingers and the lights went out again.

The party guests listened to them laughing and stumbling up the stairs in the dark until the room was silent again, and Adam gestured a hand up to turn the lights back on.

Yeshua walked over to where the Antichrist was lounging on a couch. “That seems to have all gone to plan, more or less.”

Adam yawned. “Glad it's over, honestly. Now, we just have to make it through the next week without any major disasters.”

“From your mouth to Dad's ears,” Yeshua agreed, pointing a finger up, and lifting his gaze.

“_She's_ the one I'm most worried about.”

“You say that, but I just spent the evening with your mother. A warning would have been appreciated.”

Adam glanced over to where Azazel and Freddie were talking to a few of the strippers. “I didn't know he was planning to join you. He wasn't any trouble was he?”

Yeshua shrugged. “I guess not. He was just… _himself_.”

“I think he's really trying.”

“Trying to _what_?” Yeshua asked.

“Make friends. Find his place in the Universe.” Adam shrugged. “It's hard for him, you know. He was Lucifer's right-hand angel before The Fall, and after that…they had this weird relationship, millennia of pretending that they didn't need each other, seduction tactics, and power dynamics, and… I don't know… working to be demons, I guess. Now, he's given up what being a demon has always meant for him before, to try to build a real life for himself-- stop pretending at ambivalence with Lucifer, getting all maternal with me, trading temptation and torture for domesticity and family… I think it makes him happy, but I think he gets bored with it sometimes too. He has more in common with Crowley than the other demons, so maybe he sees the life that Crowley and Aziraphale have built for themselves here, and he wants to take a little piece of that back to Hell with him.”

Azazel caught Yeshua and Adam staring at him speculatively and gave a little wave, then blew Yeshua a kiss for good measure.

“Or maybe he's just here to cause trouble,” Yeshua said.

“There's always that,” Adam agreed.

Yeshua yawned. “I'm going to claim one of the rooms upstairs before all the good ones are gone.”

“I think they're all the same.”

“Yeah, but some of them will be farther away from the one Aziraphale and Crowley picked.”

Adam laughed and nodded. “Go on then. I'll make sure everyone here finds their way home or to bed.”

Yeshua nodded, and made his way upstairs alone.

Adam got up and went over to the bar for a final drink and to dismiss the strippers for the night, though a few of them lingered.

Anathema wanted to go home to her children, so Pepper agreed to take her back to Tadfield, and Adam helped the two of them rouse Madame Tracy enough to get her into the car, to drop her off at home, as well.

“Is the party over already?” she asked as they were getting her into the back of the Sometimes-Citroen.

“Time to call it a night,” Adam said.

“Lightweights,” Madame Tracy mumbled, even as she was falling asleep again.

Adam waved them off and turned to go back inside, but Azazel was waiting at the door.

“I'll be off as well,” he said, giving Adam a quick hug and a peck on the cheek.

Adam grimaced at the attention, and Azazel just smiled back and ruffled his hair.

“Remember what I said about Wilde. I'll see you at the wedding.” Azazel stretched out his wings, and with a few flaps that displaced the cool air into a freezing wind that blasted right through Adam's suit, he was gone into the darkness.

_Wilde_. He’d nearly forgotten that he was responsible for the man for the next week, and he hadn’t seen him since the little gag with the lights. He should probably figure out where he’d wandered off to.

Adam hurried inside, scanning the room for Oscar, just in time to see Freddie Mercury slinking up the steps with a demon stripper under each arm.

“Oi, Freddie, hold it right there!”

Freddie turned, face puzzled.

Adam stalked toward him, arm flicking out, as he magicked a long foil ribbon into his hand. He held it out to Freddie. “Do us all a favor. Lesson learned, yeah?”

Freddie slipped an arm free from one of the strippers to take the strip of condoms, and he gave a little salute, with the rubbers clasped in his hand. “Thanks,” he said. “You must be Adam the Antichrist. Crowley’s mentioned you.”

“That’s me, patron saint of safe sex,” Adam said with a wry wince. “You do… have lube, right?”

One of the strippers let out a deep chuckle. “We’ll take care of him, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”

“Right,” Adam said, feeling his face heat. “Have fun.” He turned and started back down the stairs, listening to the strippers laugh at him the whole way.

_Fine._ That was fine. Let them laugh all they wanted. He was so far beyond embarrassment at this point that he was comfortable with being the awkward guy handing out condoms to deceased rock stars. It wasn’t as though he could be any more sexually awkward than he already was. If Freddie Mercury wanted to have a threesome with a couple of strippers, Adam wished him the best of it, but there was no way he was letting them slip away without the best STD protection that his infernal magic could provide—unbreakable, pre-lubricated, and designed for his pleasure. _Nothing was getting through those suckers._

Adam forced away his embarrassment and told himself that regardless of how ridiculous his life was, at least _he_ was a responsible adult.

“What was that about?” Oscar Wilde asked.

Adam blinked up at him. He really was very tall. Grumbling, he magicked up another strip of condoms and handed them to Wilde. “As long as I’m going to be _that guy_, you might as well have some too.”

And _yeah,_ here he was giving the safe sex talk to _Oscar Wilde_, while he was at it. If he ever had any grand ideas of managing to have a normal life, he should just forget them at this point.

Oscar accepted the ribbon of condoms and pursed his lips. “And, these are…?”

“Rubbers,” Adam closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. “You put them on your… Look, I’m not getting out a banana. They’re for sex, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

Oscar struggled with holding back a smile. “I am familiar with the concept. However, my tastes don’t typically require the need for pregnancy prevention.”

He tried to hand them back, but Adam just gave him a dead-eyed glare. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder towards the staircase. “That man who just left, his name is Freddie Mercury, and he’s one of the greatest musicians who ever lived—voice like a god. He died _way_ too young, from a completely preventable sexually transmitted disease. I know that you’re only here for a week, but in the 21st century, only idiots have unprotected sex. Or, I suppose supernatural entities can probably get away with it; I’m not having the safe sex talk with Aziraphale and Crowley, anyway. But, _you_ wear a rubber if you’re sticking your cock in anything with a heartbeat. _Understand_?”

Oscar nodded. “Consider me thoroughly reprimanded.” He folded the condoms away into an inside pocket of his waistcoat. “I was rather hoping that you’d join me for a drink first, however.” He held up a bottle of amber liquid. “The club steward had a secret stash of the good stuff, back in the old days. I had a look on the off chance that it was still there. It seems your restoration was complete in every regard.”

Adam froze. “I didn’t mean… I wasn’t suggesting…” Oscar just looked at him, waiting with the bottle raised and one eyebrow cocked. “Yeah, okay. Fuck it. Pour me a glass.”


	8. Faerie Revels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one gets a bit smutty in places...

“I think this is the fanciest brothel I've ever been in,” Crowley said, brushing his hand over the red velvet draperies that shrouded the bed. “I suppose it would have to be for a hundred guineas a year.”

“It was never a brothel, just a discreet club for a certain type of gentleman.”

“A certain kind of club that offered the services of discreet gentlemen, you mean.”

“I wouldn't know anything about that.”

“Of course you wouldn't, angel. You were just here for the _dancing._”

“I'll have you know that I was a very popular dance partner.”

“Of course you were.” Crowley reached out to pull Aziraphale to him, slipping an arm around his waist and clasping their hands together, as he led them in a slow waltz.

“You say that as if you don't believe me,” Aziraphale said.

“Don't believe that you strung along a contingent of the most eligible confirmed bachelors in London? I don't doubt it for an instant.”

“I wasn't _stringing them along._”

“No, I suppose that would imply intent. You've always been guiltier of self-deception than purposeful cruelty.”

“We're talking about you now, are we?”Aziraphale asked.

“Oh, I've never deceived myself. I knew that I wanted you the moment you said you'd given away that flaming sword. I just never thought I'd need to wait so long. Figured that God would've chucked you down straight away, and I could've fished you out of the burning lake of sulfur to have you all to myself. I'm glad He didn't, mind, but it did make you a lot harder to woo.”

“All of that was your idea of wooing then?”

“This is the self-deception that I was talking about. You know that you were in love with me by the end of the first millennium.”

“I'm an angel; I love everyone.”

“You_ were _an angel, and even angels aren't supposed to love demons,” Crowley said. “So cue six thousand years of angelic self-denial and, frankly quite hurtful, claims that we weren't even friends.”

“If you're planning to hold all that over my head for the _next _six thousand years, I'm not so sure that I do want to marry you.”

“I'm just pointing out that when it comes to matters of love, or lust for that matter, you don't have a leg to stand on.”

“So, I ought to take your word that I was some kind of gay, Victorian, sex symbol—even though you weren't there, because you were taking your stroppy little nap.”

Crowley grinned and gave Aziraphale a spin so that he could wrap his arms around him from behind. “Have you even looked in a mirror in the last century, angel? You're _still _a gay, Victorian, sex symbol.”

Aziraphale reached back to run his hand over the tight silver lamé clinging to Crowley’s hip and thigh. “While you seem to be stuck in the 1970s, if I don't miss my guess. Did you have to paint these on? I'm going to have to miracle them away to get them off of you.”

Crowley flicked his tongue out to flutter against Aziraphale’s ear. “No one's stopping you.”

-*-

“So, of course she doesn't believe me,” Adam said, taking a long drink from his snifter of brandy. “And, how am I supposed to explain to a modern, scientifically-minded woman, that my mother is some kind of demonic incubus, and regardless of the fact that he looks like a gay porn star, he did _in fact_ actually give birth to me? I'm still trying to wrap my own head around that. And, the whole adoption thing seemed like an easy enough way to explain it all. At least, until… you know… we got to that point in our relationship when it was okay to say, ‘_hey, look, see, I know you're an atheist and everything, but it just so happens that I'm the Antichrist, so I know you're basing your religious philosophy, or lack thereof, on concrete data, but you've got it a bit wrong, because… well, I exist. One big block of irrefutable concrete data, _right here_. And, Grandma says the dinosaurs are a joke, but I'm pretty sure She's lying about that, so you don't have to give up your Master's of Paleontology or anything, just completely reevaluate your views on theology._’ I'm not sure exactly where in a relationship you're supposed to have that conversation; I never seem to get that far, but we definitely weren't there yet. So, _adopted_, right? Only apparently she had to go and say something about it to my mother, my _real_ mother…. Er, well, the one who raised me anyway. And, it isn't as though I was _actually _adopted. There was just this big game of musical babies, with a bunch of satanic nuns, and Crowley, cocking everything up. So my mother doesn't have any idea that she gave birth to some other baby, and I'm just the…. the… _damn… _Where's Crowley when you need him? One of those birds that lays its egg in the other bird's nest, and the mom and dad bird care for it like it's their own, until it gets big and kills the other baby birds in the nest.”

“I think you mean a cow bird,” Oscar said, reaching for the bottle to refill their glasses.

“Cow bird? Really? That doesn't sound right. Not exactly sinister is it, _cow bird_?”

“Not particularly.”

Adam waved it away. “But, that's me, then. Just an Antichrist cow bird. My parents don't have any idea that I'm not their biological son. And, I was just an innocent young bird, happily part of my bird family, until it was time for Armageddon, and destroying the nest, and the other cow birds turned up to… egg me on.” Adam covered his eyes with the hand not holding his brandy. “Fuck! How did I get on birds? I spend too much time drinking with Crowley. The point is…” Adam groaned as the words left his mouth, but forced himself on. “The point is, how'm I supposed to date anyone, with that kind of baggage waiting in my hall cupboard?”

“It doesn’t sound as though that type of baggage would have been something that this young woman, Marcia, would have been capable of accepting. Perhaps you should look for your paramours from a more theologically open-minded set.”

“Oh, my father… that is, Lucifer, already suggested a Satanist singles mixer.” Adam raised his glass. “They probably exist, but I’m not sure that I’m desperate enough to start up some relationship with an insane religious fanatic.”

“I find it hard to believe that you would be desperate at all. Although, if you don’t mind me saying so, I took you for one of my sort, so perhaps the ladies are disregarding your attentions under the same misconception. But then, as you pointed out earlier, I’m a bit out of date on such matters.”

Adam squinted one eye shut and peered at Oscar while he tried to work that out, but he decided that he was too drunk to muddle through Victorian tact. “What?” he asked.

“It could be that the women in your life don’t show interest because they mistakenly assume that you’re a homosexual.”

“_Oh_.” Adam shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m bisexual, but unless I’m interested in someone in particular, I don’t think I come off as overtly gay _or_ straight.”

“Bisexual?”

Adam smiled. “Yup, I like them all. As long as they’re intelligent, and funny, and easy on the eyes, I don’t give a toss for what’s between their legs. Or, well, I care; I just don’t… discriminate. I’m an equal opportunist, so I’m not even narrowing the playing field, and I still can’t find anyone.”

“You honestly don’t have a preference?”

Adam shook his head. “Nope. I’m a perfect Kinsey 3. Oh, but I suppose you don’t know about Kinsey…”

“I can’t say that I do.”

“Kinsey was great. He did this study on human sexuality, and he said that there’s this whole scale of sexuality when it comes to same-sex attraction—0, being completely heterosexual, and 6, completely homosexual. He interviewed all these people about their sexual history, and he found out that most people actually fall in the grey area somewhere in between, to one degree or another. I’m right smack dab in the middle.”

“Things were much more black and white in my time. Of course, homosexuality was treated as a psychological disease, rather than a person’s innate nature, but it’s good to see that things have changed.”

“_Are_ changing,” Adam corrected. “We aren’t done yet, but we’re getting there. Freddie’s world would have probably seemed incredibly progressive to you, and I look back at the 1980’s and it seems like the dark ages.”

“I suppose that’s the nature of time.”

“Yeah, well, I meant what I said. I’m not sure what exactly I can do, but Lucifer and I are going to have a long talk about torturing souls for homosexuality. I mean, I’ve seen Azazel in a female aspect _once_, and if the noises coming from their bedroom are anything to go by, they’re a couple of damned hypocrites.”

Oscar took a steadying sip of his brandy, and said softly. “I don’t think that’s why I’m in Hell.”

“What?” That brought Adam up short. He’d never even considered that Oscar could have been being punished for something else.

“Love isn’t a sin; the betrayal of love is.”

“What do you mean?”

Oscar looked like the next words pained him. “_Constance_, my wife.” He took another sip of his brandy, as if to steel himself. “I married her for her money, of course, but I did love her, as much as I could, anyway. She gave me two beautiful sons. But, well… I think I may be the outlying six, on your Mr. Kinsey’s scale, and my carnal tastes lay elsewhere. First it was simple adultery, but then I fell in love. Bosie was… _all consuming_\-- a beautiful, fair-haired cherub on the outside, and wickedness and cruelty beneath that beautiful surface, and I _loved_ him for it anyway. That love corrupted every other good thing in my life, but I still don’t call it a sin—not in and of itself. It was my choice to give into the lust at the expense of my family. If not for my pride, I might have even escaped the prison sentence when his father called us out on our misdeeds. Even after, I could have restored, if not my reputation, at least my marriage and my relationship with my children. Instead, I chose Bosie again, and I wasn’t enough for him. _I never had been_. I died forsaken and alone, as did Constance, and our children were left orphaned.”

Oscar drained his glass, and looked down at it as he turned it in his hands. “So, there you have it. That’s why I deserve to be in Hell. There’s my confession. The priest giving me my last rights never even got that. I was too far gone by then, but still conscious enough to know that I didn’t sincerely repent any of it—that I would have done it all over again.”

“It sounds like you repent it now,” Adam said.

“I’m sorry for anything I did that hurt my family. I think the endless torture of Hell cured me of my love for Lord Alfred Douglas, in a way that two years of hard labour never could.”

Adam didn’t know what to say to that, so he reached for the bottle and refilled Oscar’s glass. “Now I feel like an arse for complaining about my stupid problems.”

“Only other people’s problems seem stupid; your own, however small, are always pressing. If you think otherwise, you show more compassion than I would have expected, given your parentage.”

Adam couldn’t think of a tactful response to that either, so he settled back into the couch beside Oscar and searched for a change of subject. “Did I tell you about my dinosaur?”

-*-

Aziraphale had thrown Crowley down on the bed and was nuzzling into his thigh, but he hadn’t gotten around to ridding his lover of his trousers yet, and they were starting to get uncomfortably tight around the crotch area.

“Adam had a bunch of strippers, dressed as demons, read me poetry,” Aziraphale said, pressing his face into the bulge straining at Crowley’s fly, as he ran his hands under the hem of his shirt to trail fingers along the fluttering skin of Crowley’s smooth stomach.

“Mmmm. Erotic Poetry?”

Aziraphale nipped at his thigh with his teeth and Crowley gasped and arched his back.

“_Romantic_ poetry,” Aziraphale corrected.

“You have to hand it to the kid. He knows what gets your engine running.”

“And are drag queens what gets_ your _engine running? Are we missing whole avenues worth exploring, in the bedroom?”

Crowley snorted at the idea of Aziraphale done up in drag. “That was just a bit of fun. The backup dancers _were_ dressed as angels, mind,_ in lingerie_.”

Aziraphale nipped again, and Crowley made an undignified noise.

“Nggk. Ah. _Ahhh… _It was all a lot more campy than erotic. _My_ night of debauchery is only just beginning, or _would be_ if you’d get these bloody trousers off of me.”

Aziraphale relented then, and slid his hands down from Crowley’s chest and over his belly, as he reached for his belt buckle. He unclasped it and undid the zip, while Crowley returned to his serpentine roots with a shimmy of his hips, as he tried to wriggle free.

“You know, I was joking about miracling them away,” Aziraphale said, laughing, “but I don’t think these are coming off without a pair of scissors otherwise.”

“No, don’t--” Crowley started, but his protests were cut off in a relieved moan as his erection was freed from its silver lamé prison, and his legs were left bare, save for—

“Crowley? Are... Are those my shoes?”

-*-

Heaven was great. It was supposed to be great, almost by definition. But, whatever the theologians, and the angels, and anyone else had to say about it, it missed the mark of paradise by a fair bit.

And, Freddie had _missed_ this.

He just panted and gasped as he let the sensations wash over him: the feeling of surrender, and pleasure, and sweet release. Celestial harmonies, and perfect peace, and holy contentment, didn't compare to a set of plump lips wrapped around your throbbing cock, or the inititial stretch and feeling of bring filled as he slid inside of you, or the electric feeling when he hit just the right spot and pounded you into the mattress until you saw spots.

This _right here_, this was Heaven, in microcosm, if only for a fleeting instant, but _oh_ how he'd missed it.

It was messy, and it was human, and he hadn't felt so alive in years.

His voice broke as a moan turned into a startled gasp, and then he lost all sense of everything as he cried out his release.

-*-

Yeshua rolled over in bed and firmly clamped his pillow over his head.

He had very carefully selected the room farthest from where he could hear Aziraphale and Crowley arguing about something. Probably something stupid-- like books, or Oscar Wilde, or ducks… or books about ducks by Oscar Wilde. He'd had enough experience with them by now to know that the bickering was only a prelude to other _louder_ noises coming from their bedroom, and he'd been so proud of his divine forethought to claim his room early, before the rush.

That was, until the muffled voices in the room next door started, and then the moaning, and the headboard had started thunking against the wall that his own bed was positioned against.

He wasn't sure who was on the other side of the wall, but they'd been at it for _hours_, and if he heard one more orgasm, he was calling a cab to take him back to Mayfair.

Who was he kidding? It was probably Azazel, and he was probably doing it on purpose, just to rub it in a little more. The goat could say whatever he wanted about love and monogamy, but he was still a demon. He wasn't fooling Yeshua any. He'd seen him making eyes at Freddie all night, and _constantly _flirting with anyone who showed him the slightest attention.

Adam might claim that his mother was turning over a new leaf, but Yeshua hadn't seen any evidence of it.

He let out a long sigh and forcefully reminded himself not to judge others, lest he be judged. Being a demon didn't make Azazel inherently irredeemable. Crowley had proven that well enough. Adam seemed to love his mother, for all of his complaints about the strangeness of his life. That should be enough for Yeshua to keep an open mind.

It just wasn't always easy to…

Yeshua's train of thought was derailed by screams of, “Oh, fuck yes! Oh God!” as the thunking started again.

Yeshua threw the pillow off his face and screamed in frustration, hammering his fist against the wall over his head. “Keep it down, you bastards! And don't take my Father's name in vain, for fuck's sake!”

-*-

Oscar smiled to himself in a drunken haze, as he idly twirled Adam’s golden curls through his fingers, listening to him babble.

They were lounging together on the soft couch before the big fireplace in the main room of the club. It had always been his favorite place here, especially at times like this, when the lights were off, and it was quiet save for the occasional, distant, creak from upstairs. He had done this with Bosie in the early days of their relationship, when Bosie was still interested enough to ignore whatever strange flesh was on offer for the night to spend time with him—just sharing a bottle together before the fire and talking into the long hours of the night.

Now, he was here with a different golden-haired, beautiful, young man, and he couldn’t help but consider it an improvement. As short of a time as he’d known him, it was clear that Adam Young was nothing at all like Lord Alfred Douglas. The Antichrist didn’t have a cruel bone in his body. _And, wasn’t that a surprise._ The supposed embodiment of evil had been ready to jump to his defense within moments of meeting him, and had shown him understanding and compassion in the face of Oscar’s deepest regrets. Compassion was something that he’d learned to value more and more since his death, and he was very much looking forward to getting to know Adam better over his short allotment of time on Earth.

“’M working on trainin him, but it issn like training Dog. He’s my hellhound. You can meet him tomorrow. Dog'ss great, but ya know, ‘m'is master an everythin'. He lissens to what I say, an he does it. Dilly is… well, he’s a _dinosaur_. You can’t jus' tell a dinosaur _sit_, and throw him a chunk of Hastur meat when he does it. Cause… he doesn’ do it. It’s the reptile brain, I mean positive reeinfra… reuinifi… being nice to him when he does what he’s sposed too. It doen’t work. He’s not motivated by… by… a desire to please me. He just wants to hunt. Maybe to fuck, but I can’t find a mate for him _anywhere_.”

Oscar stopped the motion of his fingers in Adam’s hair and brushed it back away from his forehead. “So the dinosaur has been eating Duke Hastur _over and over again_ since you resurrected it?”

“Yeshua resurrected him,” Adam said. “It was just my idea.”

Oscar laughed. “I’d give anything to watch Hastur get eaten by a dinosaur.”

“I’ll show you,” Adam said. “After the wedding, I mean. S’long as you’re condemned to Hell anyway, you might as well come over and hang out once in a while. Gets to be a bit much sometimes, jus' hangin' round the _Infernal Residence_ with mum and dad. You could keep me company, and I’ll show you my dinosaur.”

“I look forward to it.”

“I don’t care what you say; you don’t belong down there. You’re Aziraphale’s friend. An angel’s not going to be friends with someone that blongs in Hell. Crowley didn’t, even Gran could see that. Besides, I like you, and you have pretty eyelids. Has anyone ever told you that you have pretty eyelids?”

“I admit, that is a new one,” Oscar said.

There was a moment there, as he brushed the hair back from Adam’s face again-- a moment where he could have leaned forward to brush his lips against that inviting cupid’s bow of a mouth. He started to go in for that kiss, and Adam tilted his chin up just a bit, ready to return it.

And then he remembered who this bright young man’s father was, and he’d gotten into trouble by getting on the wrong side of a powerful, overprotective father once before, and it had landed him in prison at Her Majesty’s pleasure. What was the Marquess of Queensbury compared to Satan himself?

Oscar pulled back quickly, a stone of dread settling into the pit of his stomach, and he cleared his throat.

“It’s getting late,” he said, to cover it. “We should probably turn in for the night. I haven’t slept in _ages_.”


	9. The Dog that Bit You

Crowley woke to the bed shifting slightly beneath him, and he turned on his side to see Aziraphale sitting on the edge, buttoning his shirt. He snaked a hand around Aziraphale’s waist to pull him back down.

“Where you think you're going, angel? I'm not done with you yet.”

Aziraphale huffed out a little laugh as he flopped down beside Crowley on the coverlet, wearing only his pants and a half buttoned shirt. Crowley ran a hand over the scattering of soft golden hairs along the rounded curve of Aziraphale's thigh to where it disappeared under the the hem of white cotton.

“That tickles,” Aziraphale protested, squirming. “Adam is having breakfast catered in this morning. We should go downstairs before we miss it.”

Crowley groaned. “Should have known it would be food coaxing you out of our cozy little bower.”

Aziraphale glanced up to the curtained canopy of their bed. “Hardly a bower, though it is quite cozy.”

“You need more imagination, angel. Close your eyes and think of the garden. Those first warm, summer days, the cool shade of the first trees, the smell of life on the breeze—honeysuckle and orange blossoms.”

Aziraphale did close his eyes, and let out a sigh.

Crowley slid the open top half of Aziraphale's shirt down over his clavicle and one shoulder to press his mouth against the soft flesh at the base of his neck.

“We’ll miss breakfast,” Aziraphale whined.

Crowley kissed his way down Aziraphale's chest and locked his mouth onto one pert, coral-pink nipple.

Aziraphale moaned and mumbled something about crepes.

“Fuck the crepes,” Crowley growled. “You might be willing to risk your head for a breakfast pastry, but I'm not giving up an orgasm for _pancakes_.”

“Crepes are _not_ the same as pancakes.”

“Course they are. It's the exact same ingredients.They just make them thinner.”

“They have fruit filling.”

“Well, pancakes with extra accessories. Anyway, some people put fruit on pancakes.”

“Just because … _oh_… you're doing that _on purpose._”

Crowley had dipped his hand under the waistband ofAziraphale's pants and coaxed him to hardness while he was distracted by the argument.

“You wicked serpent. I'm tempted to miracle that troublesome thing away, and leave you here to your own devices.”

“I think your grumbling stomach is the only troublesome organ here,” Crowley said. He pushed up the hem of Aziraphale's shirt to nuzzle into the swell of his tummy.

He smiled at the idiosyncratic bellybutton. He loved that bellybutton. He had absolutely no idea why Aziraphale had felt the need to manifest it—imagined that Aziraphale had just noticed that they were part of the packaging and decided that he ought to have one as well. Only, he didn't seem to understand the underlying anatomy of the thing, or its purpose—completely unnecessary on an angelic being conjured from the ether by the Divine Will of God. Aziraphale's bellybutton was like the dimple on the abdomen of Michelangelo's statue of David. It was a place to draw the eye, to give contour and texture to the pale, smooth skin—a place for Crowley to nip, and kiss, and tickle.

Crowley had never bothered to manifest one for himself, though he did have nipples, as did Aziraphale. One set each, whatever Shadwell’s opinions on the matter were. And the sheer ridiculousness of that, that Aziraphale had manifested nipples and a bellybutton, anatomical structures most humans must surely find unnecessary save for the growing and raising of their young, while he'd apparently spent six millennia wandering the Earth without that troublesome organ that most men would sooner die than live without, well… that was Aziraphale in a nutshell, wasn't it?

“Do you know what happens to your breakfast if I keep you here?” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale's skin.

“It gets cold?”

“It turns into brunch.”

“_Oh_…”

Crowley could hear the soft smile in his voice.

“I like brunch, “ Aziraphale admitted.

Crowley smirked his triumph to himself, and started laving his attention on that beautiful little dimple. He ignored Aziraphale’s squirming protests and the increasing demands for attention to the erection that he'd been threatening to ignore in favor of fancy, fucking, French pancakes mere minutes before.

He reveled in the feeling of pleasure and power that always came from turning his angel into a demanding, gibbering mess of oversensitized nerves and raw need.

-*-

Yeshua shuffled down the hall like the sleep-deprived zombie Christ that he was.

The sun had been coming up when the orgy in the next room had finally fallen silent, and he'd been able to fall asleep. Then he'd been woken by someone going down the hall, knocking on all the doors, to tell them that breakfast was ready.

He didn't want breakfast. He'd be perfectly happy to go without, if it meant that he could have another precious hour of sleep, but he had a duty here. He was Crowley's best man, and while he'd been perfectly happy to let Adam do most of the planning, he should at least be present for this final act of the stag night proceedings. Crowley had bestowed a great honor upon him, by asking him to stand beside him as he pledged himself to Aziraphale. The least he could do was drag himself out of bed to attend breakfast.

As he passed the final door in the hallway, to turn toward the staircase, he heard Crowley's voice cry out loudly from the other side in a broken crescendo.

“Oh fuck, _yeah_…ngk… look at me, angel.”

Then came Aziraphale’s desperate response: “No, not yet… Don’t you dare. Just a little longer. Yes there. _Mmmnh_.”

Yeshua froze, one hand on the banister, foot raised to take the first step down, as a disgruntled sort of rage boiled up in him, but he couldn't quite force himself to stop listening.

Yeshua's moment of mixed seething envy and peevish annoyance was broken, as Freddie came into the hallway with a couple of men that Yeshua vaguely recognized as some of the strippers Adam had hired. One of them was wearing Freddie's jacket, and the other had his white shirt on. Freddie himself wore only a pair of black wings above the waist.

Aziraphale's moans and Crowley's grunting ratcheted up in volume for just a second and then fell silent.

“Sounds like they’re putting on quite the performance,” Freddie said, as the three of them came to a halt next to Yeshua.

“I wasn’t--” Yeshua started, feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck, but then he looked back down the hall in the direction they had all come, and noticed that the door to the room next to his had been left slightly ajar. “That was _you_ making all the racket last night?”

Freddie smirked, pleased with himself. “No one has ever accused _me_ of putting on less than a great show, and I had very talented accompaniment.”

“We needed several encores,” the taller of the two strippers added, looking smug.

Yeshua glared at them. Despite the fact that the three of them had certainly gotten even less sleep than Yeshua, they all looked awake and refreshed. He was pretty sure that, in that moment, he hated them completely.

The noises behind Aziraphale and Crowley’s door were starting up again, quiet for now, but already building in volume.

“You have to envy them that supernatural refractory period,” Freddie said. “I know I don’t have the energy to keep going. I feel like a wrung out flannel. Come on boys, breakfast is calling, and I know you've both worked up quite an appetite. We’ll leave Yeshua to his voyeurism.”

They slipped past him on the stairs before he even had a chance to protest the insinuation-- Freddie’s fake wings swaying with the motion of his steps in a ruffle of black feathers. They were halfway down the staircase when Yeshua had the presence of mind to follow them.

“Damn you all,” he muttered as he made his way down the steps.

He was almost relieved when they all made it into the dining room, and Adam and Oscar looked just as tired and miserable as he felt. Adam had his head pillowed in one arm on the table, a mug of something steaming clasped tightly in his other hand. Oscar sat beside him with a teacup and a sympathetic look on his face, rubbing Adam’s back in slow circles.

Freddie and his companions made a beeline for the buffet table, and Yeshua trudged over to slump into the open seat on Adam’s left.

“You okay, kid?” he asked.

Adam turned his head without lifting it from his arms, so that he could look over at him. “Oh lord, heal my hangover.”

Yeshua smiled sadly and shook his head. “I _wish_ I knew that little trick. Dad says some actions need to have consequences. I guess drinking excessive amounts of alcohol is one of them.”

“Drink this wine, it is my blood,” Adam mumbled, turning his face back toward the table, so that his next words were muffled. “Vampire bastard.”

Oscar looked appraisingly to Yeshua and raised a brow. “That would make you Jesus Christ, I presume.”

“Yeshua bar _Arsehole_,” Adam grumbled.

“Just Yeshua, please,” he said. “You can leave off the Arsehole part.”

“Hmm.” Oscar grimaced. “I think his overindulgences last night have made dear Adam a smidge surly. My fault, I’m afraid. It’s an honor to meet you. I’m Oscar Wilde.”

“The writer, yeah? Aziraphale’s mentioned you a time or two.”

“I hope everyone had as much fun last night as I did,” Freddie said loudly, as he sat down across the table from them, bracketed by his two companions— both with heaping plates of food, while Freddie settled for tea and toast. “By the looks of you, you either didn't have any, or you had too much.”

Adam grunted in response, and pushed himself up from the table to look around blearily. “Did any of you see Aziraphale and Crowley yet this morning?”

“We heard them. Right, _Yeshua_?” Freddie smirked at him.

Yeshua felt himself flushing and cleared his throat. “I think they’ll be a while yet.”

-*-

Crowley was distracted by watching Aziraphale’s reverse strip-tease, as all of that creamy angelic skin was buttoned away behind its many layers, and he didn’t even start looking for his own clothes until Azirapahale was fussing with his bowtie.

“Are you wearing my shoes again?” Aziraphale asked, as he finished with the tie and watched Crowley fish them out from under the bed. “I didn’t know that you ever wore shoes.”

“These aren’t your shoes,” he said, emerging from the draped bedclothes with them clutched in his hands. “You left your shoes to mold on the feet of some stupid French Revolutionary.”

Aziraphale frowned, a hint of disappointment in his expression. “Oh,… I thought… Well, where did you get these then?”

“I found them,” Crowley said, “on the body of a headless Frenchman.” He smirked at the darkening expression on Aziraphale’s face. “I thought I’d let you borrow them for the wedding.”

“_Borrow_ them? They’re _my_ shoes.”

“You should take better care of your things then.” Crowley continued his search for the rest of his missing clothing, before he remembered where it had gone. “Mind calling my trousers back from whatever pocket dimension you miracled them away to?”

“I think I do, actually,” Aziraphale said, heading for the door. “You should take better care of your things.” He gave Crowley a bastardly little smile before he left him there, standing alone with a pair of pumps in his hand and his tackle hanging out.

Crowley looked down at his bare legs and scrunched his face.

When he stepped out of the room after Aziraphale, a moment later, he was wearing a pair of, _literally_ skintight, black, snakeskin trousers, and Aziraphale’s shoes.

-*-

Aziraphale breezed into the dining room, bright and cheery, and took in a deep breath of the food scented air. “Good morning everyone. Oh, that smells delicious.”

Adam barely raised his head from his coffee in acknowledgement.

Aziraphale didn’t pay him any mind, and made his way to the buffet table and started removing the covers from various chafing dishes to reveal the wonders beneath.

Crowley sauntered in as Aziraphale was grabbing a plate, and clicked his way over on the heels of the contended shoes.

Aziraphale glanced up and froze. “Are you…” His throat worked on empty air. “Or rather, I mean… did you….” He couldn't seem to form the ending to his question. His eyes were fixed on Crowley's legs, as he swayed over beside him to grab the carafe of coffee with a serpentine sway of improbable hips. “_You aren't decent_,” he hissed.

“When have you ever known me to be _decent?”_

“But…” Aziraphale spluttered. “You aren't wearing any _pants_.”

Crowley looked down at himself. “No one can tell, except you. Besides, whose fault is that?”

“It wasn't my intent for you to… You could have… You didn't need to come down here like _that._”

Crowley seemed to ignore him as he took his mug of coffee to one of the empty chairs at the table and sat down, but the way he looked over the rims of his sunglasses as he shifted his hips, angling them just slightly towards Aziraphale, and slowly crossed one leg over the other was telling.

Aziraphale avoided meeting his teasing, yellow eyes, but he felt them on him as he brought his plate over to the table and took his own seat.

That gaze burned into him as he started in on his breakfast, or maybe it had magically transformed into brunch by now. The crepes really were delightful, and he was distracted enough to finish one off before he remembered Crowley's state of undress and darted a furtive glance up at him.

Aziraphale coughed and almost choked.

Crowley was leaning so far forward in his chair towards him that he was almost falling out of it. His eyes glinted above the rims of his sunglasses, and his mouth was curved into the wickedest smirk that Aziraphale had ever seen.

He desperately tried to find anything else to look at, and his eyes landed on Adam. The boy was a wreck—rumpled and red-eyed, with a pained expression creasing his brow.

“Are you all right, Adam?”

“Hunh? Oh, yeah,” he gave a rueful smile. “Oscar found this old bottle of brandy, and we stayed up late drinking, after you all went upstairs. Should have just gone to bed, I think.”

Oscar coughed, and Aziraphale caught a flash of a smirk before it was hidden behind his teacup.

Something going on there, probably. One of Oscar's infatuations that would end in disappointment, more than likely, but it was nice to see them getting along.

Aziraphale turned his attention back to his breakfast, or maybe brunch, and practically jumped out of his skin when he caught Crowley’s intent stare on him again.

-*-

Adam squinted up into the bright sunlight as they stepped out of The Hundred Guineas Club and onto the busy street. It was like stepping through time, from the quiet nostalgia of Victorian England into the harsh and noisy reality of the modern era. It was hell on Adam’s hangover.

He glared up at the sky. “Do you think She’s doing it on purpose?”

“Doing what?” Yeshua asked, pausing beside Adam to follow his gaze up to the Heavens.

“This is England; it’s October, and not a bloody cloud in sight—just sunlight shooting straight into my head like celestial spear points. It’s because of the credit card thing. She’s punishing us.”

“With nice weather?”

Adam turned his glare on Yeshua. “I wish Thor was my uncle instead, at least he’d be able to muster up a few thunderclouds for my aching head.”

“I think you’re mistaking the consequences of your own poor decision making for divine retribution.”

Crowley tilted his chin up to the sky, the glare of the sun glinting off his sunglasses. “No, he’s right. That’s God giving all of us a two fingered salute.”

“I don’t think that’s precisely Her style, my dear,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley gave him a disbelieving look. “You’re joking, right?”

“Just because they turned him into an Avenger, suddenly everyone thinks Thor is so great,” Yeshua grumbled. “He’s just some meat-headed pugilist with a hammer. And, anyway, isn’t darkening the sun supposed to be the Antichrist’s job?”

“Are you really suggesting that I start up Armageddon again as a cure for my hangover?”

“No, of course not. I’m just saying that healing the sick, resurrecting the dead, spreading love and the word of God is my job. Earthquakes, turning the moon to blood, and darkening the sun is supposed to be your thing. Thor just… makes lightning, and fights with his brother a lot. Some mythological Viking wouldn’t have been able to resurrect your precious dinosaur.”

“I bet they have a killer hangover cure in Asgard though, what with all that mead,” Adam said. "Anyway, why do you care that he has a hammer? You're a carpenter. You have... I don't even know how many hammers you have, but it's more hammers than one person needs."

"Completely different kind of hammer."

"Right, you're just mad that he's a bearded son of a God with a hammer, and he gets to be a superhero, and you don't."

"I'm Jesus Christ. I died for humanity's sins. I am a superhero."

"You don't get to wear the cool cape though, do you?"

"I'm cooler than Thor," Yeshua grumbled. "He isn't even real."

Crowley looked back over his shoulder to where Freddie was lingering just outside the door to the club, taking his time to bid a passionate farewell to the two strippers. “Are you coming?” he called, impatiently.

“If you’d give me another minute,” he said, but he kissed one of the men quickly and gave the other’s arse a squeeze, before extricating himself from their embrace and hurrying over. “Can I drive again?”

“No,” Crowley said, as he started around to the driver’s side himself.

Freddie pouted and reached for the passenger side door handle, but Aziraphale caught his hand and gestured meaningfully to the backseat.

Oscar and Adam had already walked around to the other side of the car and were sliding into the backseat, when Freddie tried the handle and found it locked.

“That’s not even funny,” Freddie grumbled. “Unlock the door.”

“It isn’t locked,” Crowley said. He reached over Aziraphale to pop the glove compartment open and pulled out a spare pair of sunglasses to hand to Adam.

Adam took them with the relieved gratitude of a man being offered water in the desert. “Bless you.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, you know what I mean.” Adam put the sunglasses on. “Best godfather ever. Thor has nothing on you.”

“Better,” Crowley said.

Freddie was still struggling with the door handle, and Yeshua pushed him aside to try it himself. The door opened easily under his touch, and they squeezed into the backseat.

Adam was pushed practically into Oscar’s lap as he slid over to make room for them. He awkwardly lost his balance and ended up putting a hand on Oscar's thigh to steady himself. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s a bit cramped.”

“I’m not complaining,” Oscar whispered in a tone that made Adam suddenly aware of his heartbeat.

He pulled his hand back, somewhat belatedly, and tried not to notice how nice the big man's body felt pressed up against his.

“I’ll drop Yeshua and Freddie off in Mayfair, but I’m not driving all the way out to Oxford,” Crowley said. “You two are going to have to take public transportation from the bookshop.”

“I need to get my car back from Pepper anyway. I’ll just have her pick us up.”

Crowley turned the key in the ignition; the starter whined, but the engine didn’t turn over. “Not this again,” he grumbled.

“Again?” Adam asked. “What’s wrong with the Bentley?”

“It’s in love with Freddie, like everyone else, _apparently_,” Yeshua grumbled.

“Probably mad that you wouldn’t let me drive,” Freddie suggested.

The engine started then, and it wasn’t Freddie’s voice emanating from the nonexistent speakers.

Mick Jagger sang out instead:

_I'll never be your beast of burden._   
_ My back is broad, baby, but it's a' hurtin'._   
_ And all I want is you to make love to me._

_What's the matter, what's the matter with me?_   
_Ain't I hot enough?_   
_ Ooh, yeah, ain't I rough enough?_   
_ Ooh, yeah, ain't I rich enough, rich enough, rich enough,_   
_ Too blind to see? Too blind, too blind, oh!_

Crowley groaned and let his head fall forward to thump against the steering wheel in frustration.


	10. A Whole New World

It took several minutes of coaxing, cajoling, pleading, demanding, threatening, apologizing, compliments, and finally Freddie and Yeshua offering to take a cab, before the Bentley was rolling its way towards Soho.

It played The Rolling Stones the whole way.

Part of Crowley thought it made for a nice change, but part of him was really starting to worry about what a century of demonic influence had done to his car.

-*-

Oscar was delighted with the changes to Aziraphale’s bookshop, and they had tea together while they waited for Pepper to get over the snit she was in about having to drive back to London in Adam's Citroen.

When they left, Aziraphale was still trying to add to the pile of books in Oscar’s arms, and Adam didn't think he'd ever seen him smile so much over books _leaving_ the shop. Come to think of it, he wasn't sure that he ever _had _seen a book leave Aziraphale's shop before.

The Citroen obligingly turned into a four-door Jaguar sedan for the trip back to Tadfield, and Pepper quickly fell asleep in the backseat.

“So, you're back on the mortal plane for a week. Is there anything in particular you want to do while you're here, or are you just going to read the whole time?” Adam gestured to the book in Oscar's hands that he was skimming through.

Oscar laid his book in his lap and considered for a moment. “I shouldn't want to inconvenience you any. I would quite like a bath, though a wash would suffice. My exertions on the dance floor last night have left me in something of a state. I wasn't provided with any additional clothing or necessities either.” He straightened the lapel of his jacket. “I do not mean to complain, of course; this will suffice.”

Adam took his eyes off the road to glance at Oscar's face. He couldn't quite read the expression there. It was guarded, and Oscar seemed to be choosing his words very carefully.

“I only have a shower in my flat, but if you want a bath, I can magic one up for you; no problem. I can take care of cleaning your clothes too, and we can go shopping later. I'll buy you anything you need.”

“Thank you,” Oscar said, quietly.

Adam darted another glance at him, still unreadable, and went back to frowning at the road. “Look, I… I don't remember everything that I said last night. If I said, or did, anything to make you feel less than welcome, I'm sorry. Sometimes all this… _family stuff_ gets complicated, and I like to complain. I don't want you to feel like you're an imposition. If I'd just spent all that time in Hell, and I got a chance to come back to Earth, I'd want to… I don't know… _see _everything, do _everything._ So really if there's anything you want, or need, all you have to do is ask.”

“You've been a perfect gentleman, and immensely kind already.” Oscar stared out at the road. “I hadn't expected to find such compassion from the son of Lucifer. Forgive me; that was rude. You can't help your birth. I'm just still a bit overwhelmed with everything.”

“Overwhelmed?”

Oscar gestured out at the motorway and the other cars. “So much has changed. Last night was like some wondrous, sparkling dream. Today, I just feel… out of place. Everything moves so fast. I knew things would have changed, but… part of me feels like I'm going to blink my eyes and it will have all been some torturous hallucination—a flash of hope to make my hellish reality that much worse.”

Adam took a hand off the wheel to give Oscar's arm a comforting squeeze, then he pulled it back to pull the golden card that Azazel had given him from his pocket. He handed it to Oscar.

“What's this?”

“Your furlough pass—one week of all the Earthly pleasures you can handle, under care of the Antichrist. It isn't a dream, or a hallucination. I'm going to give you the best week that I can, and afterwards I’ll do my best to make sure things are better for you in Hell.”

Oscar remained silent, turning his pass over in his hands.

“In the meantime, I'll try to catch you up on some of what you missed. The highlights anyway.”

Oscar began to relax as Adam talked, asking questions, and Adam found himself struggling to explain things like how airplanes worked, and the societal repercussions of industrialization, and why exactly there had been two world wars. He tried to focus on the positive improvements, but he didn't shy away from the bad things either. It was obvious that Oscar was facing a massive case of culture shock, with a nice side of PTSD, so Adam didn't think that sugar coating things was going to help him adjust to his current reality. You couldn't go from torture in Hell to some perfect utopia, and expect to keep a grip on your mental state. So, Adam presented the world as it was—full of tragedy and wonder. People were still fundamentally _people _after all, even in 2032. They still loved, and fought, and dreamed, and fell prey to all the same old problems in new and exciting ways.

He should have realized right off that Oscar would need a 21st century primer. He was just so used to dealing with Yeshua, that he'd sort of forgotten that Oscar hadn't had the opportunities to monitor what was going on back on Earth that the son of God did—or at least eighty years worth of television to draw on for obscure pop culture references, anyway.

Oscar could praise his compassion from here ‘til judgement day; Adam still felt like an insensitive berk.

-*-

Freddie had preceded Yeshua into the Mayfair flat and stopped in his tracks.

Yeshua followed his gaze and groaned internally.

“I think I have you pegged all wrong, Jesus.”

“It's Yeshua, and the…. _Uh… artwork_ is Crowley's. They're um… _wrestling._”

“Is that what they're calling it these days?” Freddie asked with a wry little quirk of a smile, and he strode into the flat. “What's to do for fun around here, apart from…_wrestling?_”

“Sleep,” Yeshua grumbled. “You kept me up all night. And, I'm not giving up the bed. You can sleep on the couch.”

Freddie looked nonplussed at the sight of Crowley's chosen furniture. The couch was all black leather, and chrome, and sharp angles-- the epitome of style over comfort. “I'm not tired,” he said.

“How is that even possible?”

Freddie shrugged. “Celestial jetlag?”

“Watch telly then.”

“I've been in Heaven for the last forty years. I don't want to watch crap telly. I want some excitement. Let's go out.”

“It's barely after noon.”

“Shopping then? I don't have anything to wear to this wedding.”

Yeshua pulled out his wallet and produced what Adam had dubbed his Heavenly Express Divine Mastercard. He sailed it the half dozen paces to Freddie, who caught it easily. “Buy whatever you want, but keep in mind that my Dad sees the statements. Well,… sees _everything_, but if I get a bollocking because you bought a huge dildo or something, I'm not going to be happy.”

“What about rubbers? I used up all the ones Adam gave me.”

Yeshua had been on his way to the bedroom, but he stopped and turned back. “Adam gave you condoms?”

“And a lecture,” Freddie admitted. “I suppose I needed it. Honestly didn't even cross my mind. I figured, new body, clean bill of health. I’m only here for a week, right? Who knows what I could be passing around though. Looks like I'm a slow learner.” Freddie gave him a weak smile. “Rubbers can't be much of a red flag though. I mean, I understand not wanting to know anything about your kid's sex life, but… safety first and everything.”

“My Father knows everything there is to know about… _everything_. Which, I guess, includes this conversation, so… get whatever you need. Just,… none of _that_ in the flat. Find somewhere else if you want to… whatever... _wrestle_.” Yeshua turned away from him towards the bedroom again. “It isn't fair to rub it in.”

-*- 

Adam woke Pepper and dropped her off at home, before turning the Citroen back into a Citroen for the short drive over to 4 Hogback Lane.

Mr. Young was outside on a ladder, clearing the gutters, when Adam pulled into the drive. He glanced over his shoulder as Adam and Oscar walked up to the house, did a double-take to look at Oscar again, nearly fell off the ladder, and then quickly descended, brushing his dirty hands on the legs of his trousers. “Adam,” he said jovially. “I didn't know you were coming home today. Who's your _friend_?” 

He said the word _friend_ in a way that quite clearly suggested, ‘I_ suspect that this man is sodomizing you, but I am a modern, progressive, sort of fellow, and I'm very supportive of anyone that my son chooses to date—regardless of how uncomfortable that makes me feel. And… isn't he a bit old for you?_’

Adam chose to charitably ignore both the subtext and the look of relief on his father's face, when he said, “This is Oscar. He's a friend of Aziraphale’s—just here for the wedding. Anyway, I just stopped by to grab some papers that I left here, and then we're headed back to Oxford.”

“Ah, right. Arthur Young,” he said, extending his hand to Oscar.

“I'll just be a minute,” Adam said, leaving Oscar to suffer through some small talk with his father while he hurried into the house.

Deidre Young was at the sink, and Adam kissed her on the cheek quickly before going to the kitchen table to gather up the books and notes for his thesis argument that he'd left scattered there the previous morning.

They were gone.

“What did you do with my stuff, mum?”

Deidre turned, drying a plate with a towel. “You know, I thought that when you moved out of the house, my days of cleaning up after you were at an end.”

“Yeah, okay, sorry. Where are my papers?"

“I put them on your bed.”

“You didn't rearrange them, did you? I had them organized.”

“If you wanted them in a certain order, you shouldn't have left them laying about on my kitchen table. You're as bad as your father.”

“Yeah, _hardly_,” Adam muttered, as he went to his old room.

“You can take the rest of your things while you're at it,” she called after him. “I've boxed them up for you.”

“Next time, mum. I'm kind of in a hurry.”

Adam found his thesis notes crammed in a disorganized pile, inside his messenger bag, at the bottom of a box filled with model airplanes. He grumbled a little as he looped the bag over his shoulder, left the models in a pile on his old bed, and hurried back out of the room.

-*-

“Have you known Aziraphale and Dr. Crowley long?” Mr. Young asked.

“I've known Aziraphale for many years. I only met Crowley last night. I didn't realize he was a doctor.”

“Oh yeah, obstetrician. He gave birth to Adam. Well… not _gave birth_. You know what I mean—_delivered_.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Happened to run into him years later. Funny old world, isn't it. He and Mr. Fell just sort of took Adam under their wing. Bit odd at the time, but they're a decent sort.”

“Oh, Aziraphale’s practically an angel,” Oscar said with a knowing little smile.

“And, Dr. Crowley sure knows his cars. What line of work are you in?”

“I'm a writer.”

“Academic papers? Histories? That sort of thing?”

“Plays mostly,” Oscar said. “Occasionally some poetry, fairytales, the odd novel.”

“Oh yeah? I suppose you artistic types like to stick together. Erm… _that isn't to say_… or rather… Adam is mad about dinosaurs.”

“He did seem very keen. Eustreptospondylus Oxonienis wasn't it?”

-*-

“All right, gotta go, mum. See you in a couple weeks,” Adam said, breezing through the kitchen again.

“Who's that man talking to your father?”

“That's Oscar.”

“Oscar,” Deidre turned her curiosity away from the window. “Oscar who? What happened to Marcia? I thought she seemed nice.”

“We broke up, mum. Anyway, Oscar's just a friend of Aziraphale's. He's staying with me until the wedding.”

She looked out the window again. “He's a little old for you. Handsome though, in an old fashioned kind of way.”

“Just a friend of Aziraphale's,” Adam repeated, wondering if he was trying to convince his mother or himself.

-*-

Freddie hadn't returned when Yeshua woke from his nap.

He made himself some soup and ate it in front of the television, while he watched an episode of that Marie Kondo show that Anathema had recommended.

He liked the show, but it was starting to make him feel remorseful about stuffing all of Crowley's clothes into bin liners and leaving them at the bookshop. He wondered if he could remodel their flat again to add in a larger closet, and then convince Crowley to part with some of his clothes, so that it didn't just get crammed full to bursting again.

Yeshua had washed his dishes and was just starting to wonder if letting Freddie loose to wander London unsupervised may have been a bad idea, when a racket from the hall announced _His Majesty’s_ return.

He schooled his mind to patience, reminding himself that it had been his idea to bring Freddie to Earth in the first place, as he put his dishes away in the cupboard.

Freddie was flushed with exertion and grinning when he made it into the room, arms heavily laden with bags, and holding the handle of a plastic carrier box in one hand.

“What's in the box?” Yeshua asked.

The box meowed.

“I've named her Minxy.”

-*-

Deidre and Arthur Young stood in the drive and waved Adam off as he pulled his Citroen out into Hogback Lane and drove off in the direction of Oxford.

"Do you ever get the feeling that there's a lot going on in his life that he doesn't tell us about?" Diedre asked, as she watched their son's car disappear around a bend-- her mind dwelling on the man that Adam had brought home with him.

"What twenty-four-year-old boy tells his mother everything that he gets up to?" Arthur asked, but in the back of his mind, he was thinking about a day some dozen or more years ago at the local air base, and he thought that he was much happier not knowing everything that Adam got up to when they were looking the other way.


	11. A Cat by Any Other Name

Yeshua had a love for all living things. Really, he did. But _that cat_ was surely a creature of Satan.

It was a tiny animal, adolescent, barely more than a kitten, with big, lambent green eyes, and fuzzy, grey and white fur-- razor sharp teeth, and needle like claws.

It would sidle up to him, a soft rumble in its chest, yawning, eyes nearly drifting shut with kittenish sleepiness. Then, it would jump into his lap, a soft rumble in its chest to lure him into a false sense of security. It would stretch out on his lap, all cute and fuzzy, and then it would sink those needle sharp claws right through his jeans into the tender flesh of his thigh.

Or, maybe it wouldn't.

Maybe it would curl into a little ball, brush of tail up over its nose, and Yeshua wouldn't be able to help himself. Almost of its own accord, his hand would drift down to smooth over the soft fur, and the kitten would purr some more, and arch into his hand. He'd scratch it behind the ears, and it would tilt its head into the touch. He'd reach down to rub its fat little belly, and it would turn into a snarling demon whose fury Hell hath not. Claws and teeth would fasten onto his innocent hand and hold tight, latched on with the strength of a lion, until Yeshua could finally shake it off.

It slept most of the time, save for brief bouts of furious energy when it bounced off the walls—typically at two in the morning, jarring Yeshua out of a deep sleep.

Freddie gave into its constant demands that its food bowl be kept completely full, and every time it took a drink, it would stick its paw into the dish and splash it around, leaving water spilled all over the floor. It would then lick at its paw and repeat the process.

The litter from its litter box was similarly left scattered across the floor when it had finished making its ablutions, and Yeshua was left cleaning up that mess as well, since Freddie didn't seem to think that it needed to be done with any regularity.

Yeshua wasn't too proud to admit it. He hated that cat.

Freddie, of course, doted on it as though it were his long lost child. He found its antics endearing, and was blind to the displays of viciousness.

They'd been sharing space in the flat, the three of them, for three days now, and Yeshua wasn't sure that he was going to survive until the wedding, when he could banish Freddie back to Heaven.

At least Freddie had kept up with his agreement not to have sex in the flat, but that meant that he was gone for long stretches of time—leaving Yeshua alone with the fuzzy little demon. And, once Freddie did go back to Heaven, what was Yeshua meant to do with the thing? What kind of impulsive child makes the commitment of getting a pet when he's only going to be around for a week_?_ Was Yeshua supposed to keep it after that? Maybe he'd be able to foist the thing off on Aziraphale. Bookshops were meant to have cats, weren't they? Aziraphale had a soft spot for demonic creatures. Surely he'd take in the little hell-beast. Or, better yet, he could gift it to Azazel. Every time it attacked the smug goat, he could think of Yeshua.

Minxy, as though sensing his thoughts, padded around the corner and stopped in the doorway, crooking her head to the side to let out a little, “mew?”

“Don't think I'm going to fall for that.”

She meowed again.

“His Majesty isn't here. He's probably out having sex with half of London.”

Minxy lowered her head and started padding her way towards where he sat on the couch.

Yeshua shifted away from her. “Not today, Satan.”

Minxy leapt lightly up onto the couch and sat beside him, reaching a paw out to bat at the empty space between them, purring.

“You're not fooling anyone,” Yeshua said, scooting further away.

There was the sound of a key being turned in the lock, Minxy turned her head toward the door, and Yeshua used the distraction to leap to his feet and put some distance between himself and the cat. Good, she could bother Freddie for a while and leave him alone.

But, it wasn't Freddie. Instead, Crowley pushed his way into the flat, arms full of empty flower pots, and Anathema came in behind him, carrying a case of lager in one hand and a jug of water in the other.

“What are you doing here?”

“We need to do the flower arrangements for the wedding,” Crowley said. “Hope you're thirsty.”

-*-

“What's all this?” Oscar asked. He'd just emerged from the shower, wearing only Adam’s dressing gown, as he rubbed a towel over his damp hair.

Adam's eyes flicked up from the tableful of scattered papers and books, for just a moment, to where his robe strained open against Oscar's broader chest, before he forced his attention back to his work.

“I'm trying to find a mate for Dilly. I've been cross referencing known dig sites with what can be extrapolated of the geography of the time period, and what I can guess about the habitat and range of the species, so I can make a guess about likely places to look.”

“That seems a logical approach.”

“It might be, if I had more information. The problem is that where Dilly was found would have been the seabed, 160 million years ago. All of Europe was pretty much an archipelago, and I don't know how Dilly died, or how his remains could have made it to Oxford. He might have been swimming from one island to another and gotten caught in the current to drown, or he could have died on the mainland somewhere and a river washed his remains out to sea. I’ve been looking over all the studies that have been done on the fossils, but without seeing for myself… it's all pretty out of date. Even if I could get permission to look at the one that's currently on display, it’s a replica that Crowley created, so it might not be exactly accurate, and I'm not sure I'd want to draw extra attention to it, in case someone else spots it as a forgery.”

Adam threw his dotted map down in disgust. “It's like looking for a needle in a haystack, after it's been hit by an F5 tornado, and buried under 160 million years of geological processes. I could spend my whole life looking and never come close to finding another specimen. Or we could have misidentified fossil fragments in the archives, and I'd have no way of knowing without setting Yeshua loose to play necromancer.”

Oscar laid a hand on Adam's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I'm sure you'll find it, but I don't think resurrecting a few hundred more is the best idea.”

“Oh, I don't know. Jurassic Park: London? Could be lucrative.” Adam realized the reference would be lost on him a moment too late, by the puzzled expression on Oscar's face. “Yeah, you and me, Jurassic Park movie marathon. Tonight, after this thing for Aziraphale. We'll do popcorn and the whole bit. Do you know popcorn? Was that a thing in 1890?”

Oscar nodded in bemusement. “Yes, we had popcorn."

“Don't get the wrong idea,” Adam continued, “the dinosaurs are all wrong, but it's still a great film. Crichton's books were way more scientifically accurate, though still out of date now, but Spielberg is a hell of a director. And, we actually learned a lot about how dinosaurs moved because of that film-- new technologies being applied in the process of animating and constructing the dinosaurs for the purpose of entertainment showed us things that we'd never had the funding, interest, or technology to really look into before. Plus, it inspired a lot of public interest in the field, which really made a difference when it comes to getting academic funding and grants. Actually,” Adam rose from the table and walked over to one of his bookshelves. He chose a couple of well-loved paperbacks (if, unlike Aziraphale, your definition of a well-loved book meant that it was dog-eared, falling apart at the binding, and had slightly crumpled pages from one or two sleepy dips into the bathtub,) and handed them to Oscar. “You can read them in the car, if you like.”

"I'd love to," Oscar said, accepting the books with a smile.

Adam's eyes were bright and engaging with his interest in the subject matter, and Oscar couldn't help the corresponding spark of interest, in the face of Adam's enthusiasm.

-*-

“No. No. That isn't right AT ALL,” Crowley said as Yeshua came out of the bathroom with a pot full of bluebells.

“What's wrong with them now?” Yeshua demanded, as Anathema took the pot of flowers, cracked open another can of lager, and handed it to him.

“They're supposed to match Aziraphale’s eyes,” Crowley said, flicking a finger at the petals dejectedly.

“They do,” Yeshua said. “They're blue.”

“They aren't the right blue though, are they?”

“Uh…” Yeshua bit his lip as he looked at the bluebells in the pot. “So, more of a cornflower blue?”

“If I wanted cornflowers, I would have told you to make cornflowers,” Crowley said.

“But, the shade?”

“Like the Aegean Sea on a sunny, cloudless day, in the middle of summer.”

“So,… more cerulean?” Yeshua asked desperately.

“Here.” Anethema handed Yeshua her mobile, the screen showing a zoomed in picture of Aziraphale.

“Right, okay. Can I take this with me?”

“Into the loo? No.” Anathema sounded disgusted by the suggestion.

Yeshua handed the phone back, and took another gulp of his lager. “Is there some reason that you couldn’t just hire a florist?” he asked Crowley.

“Because I have standards.”

“Clearly,” Yeshua muttered. He picked up another empty pot and made his way back to the loo.

-*-

There was a story that Adam had heard once about Oscar Wilde winning a bet against a fellow university student, based on his ability to read a book in under an hour and answer comprehensive questions about the content. Adam had assumed it was a parlor trick, just another part of the legend he'd been building around himself. Oscar had obviously already read the book, and was using the bet as a means of gaining the reputation of being an erudite wit of massive intellect, so he would be invited to all the best parties.

It wasn't a parlor trick though. Oscar read books with the steady pace of a metronome, and absorbed _all of it_.

He'd finished_ Jurassic Park_ and _The Lost World _while they were still stuck in traffic on the M25, and was asking Adam questions about extinction theory the rest of the way to the bookshop.

If Adam was being honest, he was a little in awe of the man.

Aziraphale and Madame Tracy were waiting for them when they arrived, and the four of them walked to Aziraphale’s favorite sushi restaurant for lunch, to fortify themselves before commencing with the purpose behind this little outing.

“Trousseau,” Aziraphale enunciated carefully around his third cup of sake.

“Say what?” Adam said.

“Trousseau,” Oscar repeated for him, while Aziraphale got muddled up in the first syllable.

“True sew?” Adam tried to puzzle out the words. _Something to do with tailoring?_

“Aziraphale needs help choosing some lingerie for the honeymoon,” Madame Tracy explained. “I know just the place. I can even get you my preferred shopper discount.”

Not the kind of tailoring Adam had in mind.

-*-

“Crowley, if those roses were any whiter, they'd be wearing bed sheets and burning crosses!” was the first thing Freddie heard when he stepped through the door.

Curious, he walked around the corner to find Anathema and Crowley sitting on the couch in the midst of a dozen pots of flowers, the table littered with empty beer cans, and Yeshua standing there, looking angry, and holding an entire rosebush covered with more white blooms than seemed horticulturally plausible.

“What did I miss?” Freddie asked.

Yeshua's eyes locked onto the pet carrier he held. “If that's another cat, Freddie, you're sleeping on the street.”

Freddie set the carrier down and opened the gate. A fluffy orange face poked out for a moment, before disappearing back into the carrier with a low growl.

“No,” Yeshua said. “Bring it back. You can't just get a bunch of pets when you're only here for a week. It's irresponsible.”

“I can’t bring him back. I found him on the street.”

“It probably belongs to someone then.”

“I brought him to the vet to get checked out. They scanned him for a microchip.”

“That's where you've been all afternoon? _The veterinarian?_” Yeshua felt somewhat uncharitable over his accusations that Freddie had been out getting laid—even if he'd only made them to Minxy. Freddie was a complex human being, and he really did have a big heart, even if that compassion manifested into unwanted house pets. It was Yeshua's own failing, if he just assumed that the only thing Freddie was interested in was anonymous sex with strangers.

But, then he continued. “That wasn't the original plan, but then I found George, and everything worked out all right. He was a very nice veterinarian, and not adverse to mixing business with pleasure.”

Anathema giggled. “Is George the veterinarian or the cat?” she asked.

“Yes,” Freddie said, smirking.

Yeshua very gently set down the potted rosebush and took a deep breath.

“Let's try to stay on task,” Crowley said. “There are still four more flowers to go for the bouquets, and you have to redo those roses.”

“I'm not redoing the roses. They're white.”

“They're ivory,” Crowley said.

“They're WHITE!”

-*-

Madame Tracy had brought them to a lingerie shop that looked as though it had last been popular in the 1970s. Taking charge, she'd quickly made the rounds of the racks, and stuffed Aziraphale into a changing room with an armful of silk, lace, and leather.

That had been nearly a quarter of an hour ago, and they were still waiting for him to emerge.

“Do you need some help, Mr. Aziraphale?” she called through the velvet curtain. “Sometimes the laces and buckles can be a bit tricky.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then a cough. “No. No, that's quite all right. In fact, I think I've changed my mind. This is… well it's just _silly_… Such an awful lot of fuss to go through for an outfit whose main purpose is to be removed.”

“That's the whole point, though, dear,” Madame Tracy said. “Lingerie is meant to titillate, to tease, to make the package that much more fun to unwrap.”

“No, no,” Aziraphale said. “I haven't got the figure for it. This was a ridiculous notion. I should have known better.”

Madame Tracy rolled her eyes. “Everyone has the figure for lingerie. Just not every piece of lingerie fits every figure. Let me have a look.”

With no more warning than that, she pushed her way past the curtain.

Aziraphale made an affronted noise, and Madame Tracy stifled a giggle. “I see what you mean. Not the effect you're going for at all, is it? Why don't we leave the leather to the professionals?” There was a sound of shuffling fabric and hanger. “Give this one a try instead.”

Oscar started to take a step forward, and Adam put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Don't tell me you aren't curious.”

“Not even a little bit,” Adam said. “Leave him be. He's self conscious enough without you sticking your nose in, and you're about the second-to-last person he needs seeing him right now.”

“Oh, I'm sure Crowley would tell him he looks beautiful regardless.”

“Crowley would mean it,” Adam said.

“Then who-?”

“Gabriel,” Adam said.

“The _Archangel_ Gabriel?”

“Total wanker.”

“Such a strange world it is,” Oscar said. “The archangel Gabriel is a wanker, and the Antichrist is one of the nicest young men that I've ever encountered.”

Adam snorted and looked away.

Madame Tracy came out of the changing room before Adam was forced to find a way to change the subject without being awkward about the compliment. “Well?” he asked Madame Tracy instead.

“It's a good thing he asked us for help with this. The poor dear really has no idea what he's doing. He's all a muddle in there-- buckles done up all wrong, only half laced in.” She shook her head.

“Er… I'm not sure that Aziraphale is really going to feel comfortable in anything with laces or buckles…”

“I set him on the right track,” Madame Tracy said, “just a bit of lace and some white silk, nothing too extreme.”

-*-

“This isn’t a free show, Freddie,” Yeshua growled in irritation, as Freddie stood in the doorway of the loo, watching him pee.

“Does it always do that?” Freddie asked.

“No, not always. Only when I piss on the ground,… or in dirt, I guess, and it takes some intent."

“I’ve seen a lot of cocks, but I’ve never seen one do that. Is it only urine, or do you ejaculate baby’s breath and daisies, or something?”

“Out!” Yeshua yelled, which wasn’t an answer.

-*-

“This one is better,” Aziraphale called through the curtain.

“Do you feel sexy?” Madame Tracy asked.

Aziraphale coughed. “I’m not sure I… well, that is to say…_yes_?”

“Great, come on out and let us take a look.”

There was a drawn out silence in response., and then, “I’m not sure that I feel comfortable with that.”

“Do you want me to come in?” Madame Tracy asked.

“No… I… I think I’ll save it for Crowley, if it’s all the same.”

Adam sent a silent thank you up to his grandmother. He was all about being supportive of any and all of Aziraphale’s wedding related needs, but he had no interest in seeing either of his godfathers in lingerie.

“Are you sure that you don’t want a second opinion?” Oscar asked.

Adam frowned. He wasn’t quite expecting the pang of jealousy that seductive tone of interest in Oscar’s voice caused.

“No!” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “No. That isn’t necessary.”

“Leave him be,” Adam said. “He’s right; he should save it for the honeymoon.”

Oscar sighed. “If you’re certain, cherub. I do hope you at least tried on the one with the braces.”

“I’ll… Yes,… I mean, I… I’ve made a few selections. I think these will do nicely. I… appreciate the moral support. Just… give me a moment to get dressed, and then we can get out of here, before I discorporate from sheer embarrassment.”

“There’s nothing at all to be embarrassed about, dear. It’s your special night. It’s only right to want to spice things up a little. Why, when Mr. Shadwell and I--”

She continued on after that with more information than Adam ever wanted to know about the sexual escapades of the elderly. Oscar was looking uncomfortable, though too polite to interrupt, and Aziraphale was flushed a deep crimson when he exited the changing room, properly attired once more, carrying the makings of a trousseau substantial enough to fill his hope chest, in his arms.

Adam assumed that Aziraphale actually had a hope chest, full of fancy linens that he’d been embroidering himself since Crowley had proposed, or more likely several hope chests that he’d been secretly filling while he’d been waiting patiently for Crowley to make an honest angel of him, for the last six millennia. Or, _something like that,_ anyway…

Aziraphale had a large, black bag in his hand, a happy smile on his face, and they were all walking back to the bookshop, when Oscar stopped short where a poster had been taped into the window of a bakery.

“Oh,” Adam said, following his gaze. “That’s one of yours isn’t it?”

_The Importance of Being Ernest _was playing at a theatre a few blocks over.

“We could go see it, if you want,” he offered. “There’s a show tonight. Aziraphale could miracle us up some tickets.”

“No, that all right. I’ve seen it,” he let out a strained chuckle. “Anyway, I was promised an evening of popcorn and scientifically inaccurate dinosaurs.”

“We could always do that tomorrow instead.”

“No, I,” Oscar’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “It’s just that, after the trial, I was told that they’d never perform my plays in England ever again. It’s nice to see that isn’t the case. A certain level of notoriety can be good for the longevity of one’s reputation, but leaving a legitimate legacy is… perhaps more important.”

“Your legacy is quite secure,” Adam told him. “You’re required reading for most students.”

“Imagine that; dead and gone for over a century, and I can still manage to bore university students.”

Adam bumped his shoulder into Oscar’s and caught his smile. “You haven’t bored me yet.”

“There’s still time.”

-*-

“That’s it,” Yeshua said, plopping a pot full of lilies down in front of Crowley. “I haven’t got a pot left to piss in, and I couldn’t manage another drop, even if I did. If you don’t like these, you’ll just have to yell at them until they meet your standards, or go to a florist like a normal person.”

He flopped down onto the couch beside Anathema.

Crowley glanced up from his phone to look at the flowers. “Yeah, those are fine.”

“_Fine_?” Yeshua demanded. “You’ve been nitpicking and complaining all day, and now suddenly you don’t care?”

“You finished off the list of flowers for the bouquets almost an hour ago,” Anathema told him. “We were just thinking up ridiculous things to make you try next.”

“You were… _what_?”

“Figured you would have caught on by now,” Crowley said. “It was starting to get boring, honestly. Brown lilies? Who puts brown lilies in a wedding bouquet?”

“I was going to try penis flytrap next,” Freddie said, “but we ran out of pots.”

“You’re all arseholes,” Yeshua muttered. He felt something brush against his leg, and looked down to see a fuzzy orange head pushing against his calf. “And the cat, Freddie! This has to stop. Crowley, tell him it has to stop!”

“I don’t care. I like this little grey one.”

Yeshua looked over, and was surprised to see Minxy, curled up sedately in Crowley’s lap, sound asleep.

“You should take it back to Soho with you,” Yeshua said. “It can be Freddie’s wedding gift to you.”

“I said I liked it, not that I wanted a pet.”

“What about you, Anathema? Every witch should have a familiar.”

“Allergic.”

Yeshua looked at her suspiciously. “You haven’t been sneezing.”

“Achoo,” Anathema said, deadpan.

“Stop trying to give away my cats. At least wait until I’m gone, would you.”

George jumped up onto Yeshua’s lap then and flopped onto his back. Yeshua froze, but the ugly, flat-faced thing just rubbed its head against his thigh and started purring. Ever so carefully, Yeshua reached a hand down to stroke the thick, fluffy, orange fur.

Nothing happened.

There was no attack.

George purred louder and closed his eyes.

Yeshua smiled tentatively. He ran his fingers through the soft fur on George’s belly, and still the cat didn’t attack. The fur felt nice under his hand, and the purring was even sort of pleasing to listen to, when it wasn’t a prelude to pain.

“I suppose this one can stay,” he said, “for now.”

-*-

Adam tried very, very, hard not to dissolve into a running stream of commentary, as he sat beside Oscar on the couch, sharing a bowl of popcorn, and watching _Jurassic Park_.

However, when Jeff Goldblum appeared onscreen, post Tyrannosaurus Rex attack, spread out like a buffet, with his shirt open, Adam couldn’t help but say. “I think this might have been the moment that I decided I wanted to be a paleontologist.”

Oscar made a humming sound of agreed appreciation. “Ian Malcolm was a more compelling character in the book, but you can’t argue with that kind of stage presence. Surely, you got into paleontology for the dinosaurs though? If you wanted to be surrounded by beautiful men, you should have gone into directing.”

“It was a joke, Oscar.” Adam laughed, and popped a piece of popcorn into his mouth, "mostly. Anyway, are you trying to say paleontologists are all ugly?”

Oscar’s eyes reflected the light from the television as he met Adam’s gaze, voice low. “I’ve only met one, but that hasn’t been my experience. Quite the opposite.”

Adam’s lips twitched, as he pulled his eyes away from Oscar, and back to the television, but the next time he reached for some popcorn, he shifted a bit closer.


	12. Close Your Eyes and I'll Kiss You

The other side of the bed was empty when Crowley woke. 

He found Aziraphale at the kitchen table, planning an invasion. It had to be an invasion; since there was no way that _anyone_ needed that many maps, lists, and papers for a simple wedding with less than twenty people on the guest list.

Aziraphale's hair was mussed up so that he looked like an eccentric scientist, and his glasses were slipping down his nose. Crowley stood there and watched him for a while, scribbling madly, and flipping through the pages of his little leather-bound notebook. When a few minutes had passed, and Aziraphale _still _hadn't noticed him standing there, he closed the distance between them and placed a kiss on his angel's cheek.

You'd think that he'd lit off a firecracker in the room, for the reaction he received.

Aziraphale jolted in his seat and let out a shaky laugh. "Oh, Crowley, you're awake,” he said, one hand pressed to his breastbone. “Good, I have a list of things for you to do.”

Crowley had a piece of paper, covered in Aziraphale's messy copperplate shoved into his face. “Is this my first ‘honey do' list then?” He looked over the itemized list and smirked. “Done,” he said, and reached over Aziraphale to set it back down on the table.

“What? _All of it_?”

“Yeah, well Adam is picking up the suits on his way to the rehearsal, and the decorators we hired are going by the flat in Mayfair this afternoon to pick up the bouquets from Yeshua, but otherwise, yeah, all taken care of. The only thing we need to worry about right now is packing our bags for the honeymoon and getting to the park on time.” He stole the pen out of Aziraphale's hand and marked a check next to everything on the list, then added ‘take Aziraphale to breakfast’ and ‘feed the ducks' at the bottom.

“Oh, my dear, we couldn't possibly… There's still so much to do.”

“There isn't,” Crowley said. “You're just worrying because you think there ought to be. Everything’s been planned for months; tasks have been delegated; you've micromanaged the caterers to within an inch of their lives. Now, we just have to get through it all and try to enjoy ourselves.”

“There are just so many details,” Aziraphale said. “Something is bound to go wrong.”

“I'm sure it will be a complete disaster,” Crowley agreed, “But not because the caterers got the wrong address, or the band mixed up the song list, or all of the invitations got lost in the mail.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “I don't think that's as reassuring as you meant it to be.”

“Aziraphale, _angel_.” Crowley chuckled. “We're getting _married_. Have you _looked_ at our guest list? It looks more like some kind of celestial peace summit than a party. We aren't going to get through it without a few hiccups. And, _well_, when I say _hiccups_, I mean disastrous, possibly world-ending struggles of good vs. evil.”

“Still not reassuring…”

“The important thing is that we're _getting married_. Six thousand years of hiding our relationship: spacing out dinners every few decades, falsifying reports to our respective head offices, five alternate rendezvous points, _just in case_, and tomorrow you and I are going to stand before God and Lucifer and give them the biggest ‘fuck you' in the history of policies against inter-office fraternization.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips in a displeased expression. “It's nice to know that's how you feel about our wedding.”

“Don't give me that line. I know you too well for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You made the Archangel Michael miracle you a towel after my failed execution, and asked for a rubber duck.”

“Yes, well, I was pretending to be you.”

“You were rubbing it in, and you enjoyed it. You always enjoy being a bastard, especially when you can be polite about it. Which is why our first dance as husbands is going to be a victory dance, because you and me, free agents, getting married in front of all of them, that's what winning feels like. These are the spoils of averted war.”

Aziraphale smiled. “If that’s the case, maybe we should have invited Gabriel after all.”

Crowley sneered.

“And you _really _want to go feed the ducks?”

Crowley took Aziraphale's hand and pulled him to his feet. “I want a few quiet moments alone together before all the insanity.”

-*-

In Mayfair, all insanity had broken loose.

Yeshua was stepping out of the shower, hand outstretched to grab his towel, when his foot came down on something furry that wasn't the bath mat. There was a deafening screech, and he instantly pulled his foot back, as Minxy sunk her teeth and claws into him in a furious defensive strike. He yelled and leapt backward, trying to kick her off, even as the back of his knees impacted hard with the lip of the tub. He instinctually clutched at the shower curtain to arrest his fall. The curtain held for a moment, as the ring which held it suspended bent from his weight, and then the curtain rings tore free, and he fell into the tub with a wet plop, and a hard knock to the back of his head against the porcelain.

Freddie, alerted by the noise, banged on the door twice, and yelled, “EVERYTHING OKAY IN THERE?”

Yeshua, still seeing stars, wrapped in the torn curtain, and trying to process what had just happened, didn't respond fast enough, and Freddie came in through the unlocked door.

Minxy, hackles raised and hissing like a tea kettle, streaked past him out of the room.

Freddie, upon seeing Yeshua conscious and blinking in the tub, relaxed visibly, and chuckled at his predicament. “What happened?”

“Your _fucking _cat set a trap,” Yeshua growled. He tried to maintain his dignity as he extricated himself from the bathtub, but was unable to find purchase on the slippery porcelain and slumped back down. “Don't just stand there; help me up.”

Freddie moved closer and extended a hand, and with a combined effort Yeshua finally managed to free himself from the tub and get his feet planted firmly on the now cat-free bath mat. Somewhere in the midst of this process, he'd lost his shower curtain covering, and he stood naked and dripping, mere inches from Freddie.

“Look away, would you,” Yeshua grumbled, grabbing his towel and wrapping it hurriedly around his waist without drying himself off.

“Don't be modest on my account,” Freddie said. “You haven't got anything to be ashamed of, darling. I suppose that's the kind of craftsmanship and design perfection you get when you're the son of God.”

“What?”

“You've got a nice cock,” Freddie reiterated.

Yeshua clutched his towel a bit tighter, and Freddie winced.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, holding his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “You’re straight; I get it. Can't blame me for trying. Seemed an opportune time, and I didn't figure I'd get another chance.”

“I'm not _anything,_” Yeshua said, suddenly terse. “I'm not allowed.”

“_What_? Not allowed to have sex? Not _ever_? Azazel was serious about the virgin thing?”

“Yes,” Yeshua admitted reluctantly. “No sex out of wedlock, and I'm not permitted to marry.”

“Well, that just isn't fair.Talk about a double-standard.”

Freddie’s obvious outrage on Yeshua's behalf warmed him a bit to the man.

“It isn't,” Yeshua agreed. “I try my best to put it from my mind, but sometimes… it is difficult.”

“But, to cut yourself off from that human connection… that's such a tragedy.”

“There's more to life than just sex.”

“Yeah, of course there is, but…” Freddie looked sad. “Have you ever even kissed anyone?”

“Of course,” Yeshua said. “Lots of times: my friends and my family.”

“I don't mean _that_ kind of kiss. A real kiss?”

“I don't see what the difference is, but if you mean a lover's kiss, then no.”

Freddie straightened to his full height, still markedly shorter than Yeshua, and with a determined look said, “Kiss me.”

“Kiss you?” Yeshua took a step back and felt his legs brush against the tub. “I don't even _like_ you.”

“Good,” Freddie said. “It definitely won't be a friend-kiss then.”

Yeshua felt his heart beating in his ears, and suddenly it was difficult to breath. He had no sexual interest in Freddie whatsoever, and this whole situation was incredibly weird, but just the prospect of kissing someone and having it mean anything other then ‘hello' or ‘goodbye’ spiked an ecstatic kind of tension in him that was hard to ignore.

Freddie looked at him expectantly while he waited for Yeshua to make up his mind. It was like a game of chicken, but with snogging.

“I don’t…,” Yeshua started, about to decline, and then said, “You do it,” instead.

Freddie didn't hesitate. He slipped one hand up between the back of Yeshua's neck and his wet hair, pulled him down enough to press their lips together, and laid one on him. It wasn't a long kiss, but it definitely wasn't a friend-kiss either.

Yeshua wasn't sure if he even kissed back, or just let it happen to him. Freddie’s lips were hard against his, and Yeshua was just starting to relax and enjoy it, his lips beginning to part of their own accord, so that Freddie could slip his tongue inside, when it was suddenly over. Freddie's teeth scraped, ever so gently, over Yeshua's plumped bottom lip, as he pulled away.

Yeshua was left feeling dazed, eyes still half closed, as he breathed out through his nose in a soft sigh. Freddie smirked back at him, obviously pleased with himself.

“My foot is bleeding,” was what ended up coming out of Yeshua's mouth when he finally spoke.

Freddie looked down, and frowned. “Oh, wow, yeah. Is that from Minxy? Can you heal it?”

“My powers don't work on myself.”

“Really? That hardly seems fair. Here, sit down.” Freddie moved out of the way so that Yeshua could limp past him to sit on the closed lid of the toilet. “It sounds like being the son of God is rough lot, without very many perks.”

“Yeah, I sometimes think that Adam got the better end of things.”

“I don't suppose you have a first aid kit?”

Yeshua shook his head.

Freddie grabbed a bit of the toilet roll, and knelt on the floor, using it to mop at the blood dripping from Yeshua's foot onto the floor. Once he'd gotten most of it wiped away, he pulled off another clean piece and held it to the lacerations, applying pressure. He looked up to make sure he wasn't causing too much pain, and got a good look under Yeshua's towel.

Freddie averted his eyes, and said, “Your towel is slipping.”

“Oh.” Yeshua repositioned the towel to better cover himself. “I don't think I'm gay,” he said.

“I didn't really think that you were.”

“I don't suppose it matters much, one way or the other.”

They were silent for a while.

Freddie pulled back the makeshift compress to look underneath. “I think the bleeding stopped.” He tossed the soiled paper in the bin and got to his feet again. He took the flannel from the edge of the bath and ran it under the tap to wet it and then rang out the excess water.

“What exactly happened? Why did Minxy attack you?”

“I stepped on her,” Yeshua admitted. “I didn't even know that she was in here. She must have been hiding, and then laid down on the bath mat while I was in the shower. I stepped out, and next thing I know, your demon cat was trying to amputate my foot, and I about brained myself on the tub.” Yeshua rubbed the back of his head and felt the bump growing there. “I think she did it on purpose.”

“Is that what you meant about her setting a trap?” Freddie laughed, kneeling on the floor again, and used the flannel to properly clean Yeshua's foot.

“That cat has it out for me.”

“She likes to lick the water droplets off the shower curtain,” Freddie explained. “And she doesn't hate you. This was provoked, and the rest of the time she’s just trying to play with you.”

“By biting me?”

“She's a kitten. They play with each other to learn how to hunt. Sometimes they get rough.” Freddie had cleaned away the dried blood enough to properly see the scratches on Yeshua's foot. “These don't look too deep, and it's stopped bleeding now. I think you'll be fine with just putting a sock on over it.”

“Thank you,” Yeshua said.

“It's the least I can do. I should have asked before getting the cats.” Freddie smiled sadly. “I know it was irresponsible to get them in the first place. It's just… I missed them, you know? I saw Minxy in that window, and I just wanted that feeling again—the quiet warmth of a cat asleep on my lap. And I figured, well, I’ve only got a week to enjoy myself, so I might as well catch up on what I was most missing up in Heaven.” Freddie looked up at him and smirked. “Turns out, it was cocks and pussy.”

Yeshua couldn't help a snort of amusement. “Well, I think you've managed to catch up on both. I didn’t only mean thank you for my foot though; the kiss was nice, even if I think I prefer less facial hair.”

Freddie ran his hand slowly up the back of Yeshua's leg to cup his calf. “I could kiss you a few other places, just to be sure.”

Yeshua pulled his leg away, but gently. “I couldn't guarantee that my Father wouldn't smite you if you tried.”

“Ah,” Freddie said, hissing through his teeth. “Best not to risk it. I wouldn't want to miss the wedding. Deflowering the son of God probably gets you a one way ticket to Hell, anyway.”

“Two, one-way tickets,” Yeshua corrected with a wince.

-*-

Watching Adam cook breakfast had become one of Oscar Wilde's favorite parts of his time back on Earth.

It wasn't that Adam was particularly dynamic in the kitchen. He usually shuffled in, still half asleep, in his pajamas, and stood there drinking his first cup of coffee—already hot and brewed for him, by some kind of mechanical magic, in a machine no bigger than a breadbox.

Oscar would watch him, every morning, as he stood at the counter, taking sips from his mug, and tapping away at his mobile phone-- conducting some morning business that Oscar could hardly fathom. That one machine, the size of a cigarette case, had revolutionized this new world, according to Adam, and Oscar could hardly argue. Despite all the numerous advancements he had seen, it was that one little box that seemed to have absorbed the attention of the whole world. You could hardly turn a street corner without seeing one in someone's hand. Apart from being a communications device, it had replaced the need for watches, hand lamps, maps, compasses, newspapers, books, and even the postal service. It could be used to do accounts, pay debts, and almost instantly answer any question you should care to ask.

It wasn't the only wonder to be found, of course. When Oscar had expressed an interest in watching the flying conveyances, Adam had taken him to the Tadfield Airbase, and they had spent the afternoon eating a picnic in the shade of a tree, under the scrutinizing gaze of a uniformed guard, and watched the planes take off into the air, executing precise aerial maneuvers, and landing safely on the ground once more. Adam had offered to book them passage to somewhere on one of the commercial flights, but Oscar hadn't been quite as keen to get into one of the great metal birds himself. Surely nothing so large and heavy was meant to stay in the air.

That's when the mobile phone had come out again, and Adam had leaned close to show him something playing across the screen—men dressed in puffy, white suits, with helmets, bouncing around on the moon.

The invention of recorded entertainment was one that Oscar supported wholeheartedly. At first, he had assumed this was more of that, like Adam's dinosaur movies, or the other films they had watched together, but apparently that wasn't the case. Despite being the son of Lucifer, Adam wasn't the type to lie, but still Oscar had a hard time believing that men, Americans even, had actually walked on the moon.

Curious, Oscar had asked if they could book passage on a space shuttle instead of an airplane, and Adam had laughed and said that they couldn't—which, oddly, made the story more believable to him rather than less.

Now, though, Adam had finished his morning business on the mobile phone, and his first cup of coffee, and poured himself a second cup to begin cooking breakfast, and he was awake enough for casual conversation.

Oscar took his usual seat on the stool on the opposite side of the island counter, and Dog took his cue to approach for a morning scratch behind the ears.

“We have the wedding rehearsal today. You don't need to be there, if you'd rather do something else,” Adam said.

“I'll accompany you,” Oscar said. “I'm sure I can occupy myself.”

Adam started cooking, some combination of eggs, potatoes, and sausage, all in one oversized skillet. He reached high into the cupboard above the stove for seasonings, and Oscar admired the strip of tanned skin revealed between the lifted hem of his shirt and the waistband of his pajama bottoms.

He wondered, for what felt like the thousandth time, why he didn't just say damn the consequences and tell Adam how he felt about him. Because, it wasn't just the frisson of _want_ elicited by seeing that flash of skin and the little dimple at the small of Adam's back every morning. Neither was it the way his dark blonde curls glowed, golden, in the sun. It wasn't the way his eyes lit up when he was talking about something that interested him, or the way his laugh bubbled up from his chest. It wasn't even how positively sinful the curve of his bottom looked under the thin cotton of his sleepwear. It was all of those things, of course, but more besides.

Oscar wished that he could have met Adam Young before he'd ever laid eyes on Lord Alfred Douglas. He wished that he'd never married Constance—not because a marriage to a woman could never be anything more than a sham, but because she'd deserved a husband who could have been everything a husband should be. How different his life might have been if he could have fallen in love with this bright, compassionate, intriguing, young man before he had made all the wrong choices.

Because, there was no denying it, not even to himself; he had fallen in love with Adam Young. He'd fallen in love with the goddamned Antichrist.

And, he was running out of time to do anything about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It happened completely by accident, but I'm really pleased with the symbolism of Freddie washing Yeshua's feet.


	13. Rehearsing for Disaster

Crowley and Aziraphale’s wedding party descended upon Battersea Park like an invading army, and Crowley had to revisit his earlier dismissal of the need for Aziraphale’s war plans.

It wasn’t just the wedding party, of course-- really, there were only the six of them, plus Freddie and Oscar. They were, however, outnumbered by the hoard of decorators, people from the party rental company, and all the other hired help getting things set up for the morning, by a degree of five to one.

In the midst of all the chaos, and absent the assistance of their officiant, who had more important business elsewhere, Aziraphale was desperately trying to wrangle all the mortals together to run through the ceremony enough that people would know where to stand and what to do tomorrow. As his fuse steadily burned shorter, he was more and more grateful for Crowley’s insistence that they spend the morning feeding the ducks. If not for the time spent relaxing and centering himself, he would have already blown his top.

He would have been even more grateful, if Crowley would stop joking around with Freddie and Anathema and pay attention to what they were actually trying to accomplish here.

His calls continually unheeded, Aziraphale was about to go over to pull Crowley away bodily, and make him stand on his mark, when one of the party rental people came over to ask about where they were supposed to set up the tents.

-*-

Yeshua and Adam had stationed themselves out of the way, toward where a couple of men were setting up chairs in front of the bandstand.

“I think we should have a plan for dealing with our parents, in case there’s trouble during the wedding,” Adam said.

Yeshua winced. “Your dad might not be omniscient, but mine is. I don’t think that you quite appreciate what that means. You can’t just make a plan to deal with Him, like He’s an unruly toddler. He’s God.”

“Well, my dad _is_ an unruly toddler,” Adam said. “He’s going to take any chance he can to make a scene, wedding or no wedding.”

“What are you suggesting then?” Yeshua aked.

Adam shrugged. “Try to keep them distracted as much as possible, and get Azazel to help run interference.”

“Isn’t Azazel as likely to cause trouble as Lucifer?”

Adam snorted. “Only for me, and if I can distract him with keeping dad away from Grandma, I might just have a chance of avoiding whatever matchmaking scheme he’s undoubtedly cooked up.”

“I’d take infernal matchmaking over the holy chastity belt I’ve been stuck with my whole life.”

“No luck on that score yet?”

“I’m going to die a virgin,” Yeshua lamented, “…again.”

Aziraphale hurried by them, clipboard in one hand, and a harried looking woman in a green uniform shirt chasing after him. “Get up to the bandstand, would you?” he asked, as he went by. “We’ll be starting in a moment.”

Adam gave him a little hand signal to acknowledge him, and he took a couple steps toward the bandstand, but then Yeshua spoke again, and stopped him in his tracks.

“Freddie kissed me.”

Adam whirled around, eyes wide. “He did _what_?”

“I asked him to,” Yeshua said, “well sort of… He washed my feet.”

“Go back and start from the beginning.”

“It was the cat’s fault,” Yeshua said. “I don’t suppose you want a cat?”

-*-

“Dearest,” Aziraphale begged, finally snagging a moment free from demands on his time to get Crowley’s attention, “Some assistance, if you wouldn’t mind. There seems to be some confusion over whether the band should set up _inside_ the bandstand, or at the back. I have no idea what the problem is, but would you please deal with it so that we can get the rehearsal started.”

“Yeah, no problem, angel. Just a minute,” Crowley agreed, and then turned back to Freddie. “You have to do something about the Bentley. It’s still moping.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Freddie asked.

“Apologize, you idiot,” Anathema said.

“For _what?_ What did I do?”

“You hurt its feelings,” Anathema said.

“Its feelings? It’s a car! A bloody weird car, but still a car. I can’t help it if it’s jealous. What am I supposed to do? Blow the gearstick by way of apology?”

Crowley grimaced. “Please don’t.”

Freddie threw his hands up in frustration. “What do you suggest then? I can’t have sex with your car; it isn’t physically possible, unless…”

“Do _not_ finish that sentence,” Crowley begged.

“I can’t help it if your car gets mad at me for seeing other people… for seeing _people_…” Freddie frowned. “Your car is a pervert, and a crazy fan, and a stalker.”

“You did encourage it,” Anathema said.

“How?”

“You’re a terrible flirt.”

Freddie thought for a moment. “Okay, fair point. But, in my defense, I didn’t really think _a car_ was going to get the wrong idea. I didn’t expect a bit of flirting and one little ride to be misconstrued into some kind of life-long commitment.”

“Just apologize,” Crowley said. “I can’t get more than fifteen-hundred rpms out of the engine, and I’ve been puttering around the city like a pensioner all week. It’s your fault. Figure out how to fix it.”

-*-

“It’s been nice to get away from the city, and my Mr. Shadwell is a dear, but it does get dull sometimes,” Madame Tracy was saying. “Still, one has to hang up the flogger at some point. It’s the arthritis, you know, plagues me to no end. And, you have to make compromises in a relationship. Mr. Shadwell has agreed to give up the firelighters and pins, so it only seems fair to box away the tarot cards and crystal balls. It isn’t as though I was ever very good at it anyway.”

Oscar had been listening to Madame Tracy talk about the hobbies she’d taken up since retirement, for the last few minutes. He was charmed by the blasé attitude with which she spoke about her sex work, as though it were any other sort of job; he’d always found those people who made their living between the sheets surprisingly kindhearted, and especially fascinating, but it was the attitude toward her other career that he found perplexing.

“Is your husband against spiritualists?” he asked.

“Not as such,” Madame Tracy said. “The Witchfinder Army generally casts a blind eye, as long as you’re not going around turning people into newts. I think it was a slight voyeuristic bent that drew him to the work in the first place. You should hear him go on about his days sneaking through the gorse on knees and elbows to spy on suspected witches, dancing naked by moonlight. I doubt they were really witches,” Madame Tracy confided. “It’s all about female empowerment, you know. That was the 60s for you. He had to count their nipples, you see. Though, dear Anathema is about the closest thing to a true witch you can find in this day and age, and she told me, in confidence mind, that she only has the two nipples like everyone else. She’s a sensible girl, Anathema. She carries a bread knife, and you’d never find her dancing about the standing stones with her kit off. I think it sounds like a good bit of fun, myself, but, you know… _the arthritis_. I can’t risk the cold settling into my bones, at my age.”

Aziraphale stopped a few steps from them, and looked despairingly at the chairs being set up. “No, no, no, stop!” he said to the men putting them out in two sections on either side of the aisle. “Black on one side, and white on the other. They’re supposed to be alternating for the reception, not the ceremony. And the bows were supposed to be tartan, not gingham! Where’s the head decorator?”

“She’s helping with the tents,” one of the men said, as they both immediately froze in their work. “We just thought they would look better alternating, but we can fix it straight away. No problem. These are the only bows we had, though.”

Aziraphale took a deep, calming breath. “Yes, all right. Black on one side and white on the other, if you would be so kind, gentlemen. I’ll have a word with the decorator about the bows. I’m sure they can be changed out in time.” He turned to Madame Tracy. “Just give me one moment to get this sorted, and then we’re going to start. Everyone is meeting up at the bandstand.”

He took another deep breath and headed off toward the tents.

“I think the stress is starting to get to him,” Madame Tracy observed to Aziraphale’s retreating back, “poor dear. My Mr. Shadwell and I kept things simple. These days everyone goes so overboard with weddings. The expense is enough to send you to the poor house. There’s no real need for it. It is lovely though.”

-*-

Aziraphale tracked down the head decorator, a young woman named Gwendolyn MacGregor, in one of the grooms’ tents. She was a very severe and professional looking young woman in a black suit, with a neat bob of ginger hair, and one of those ear pieces that Aziraphale usually associated with secret service men and spies.

She brightened when she saw Aziraphale and picked her clipboard up from the little vanity table that had been set up inside the tent. “Mr. Fell! Good. I wanted to talk to you about the flowers. They’re being assembled now, and they’ll be kept in an environmentally controlled storage space overnight. Most of them are going over to The Ritz of course, but the boutonnières and the bouquets will be coming here, along with some other flowers for the final decorating team to use in the morning. Now, I know that Mr. Crowley is very particular about the flowers, so I just wanted to make sure that we have all of the right flowers going to the correct places, and double-check that it will be okay to lay out the wedding party’s flowers in one of the tents to be distributed when you arrive.”

“I’m sure that will be fine, but you should ask Crowley about anything to do with the flowers,” Aziraphale said. “I haven’t had anything to do with that. I wanted to talk to you about the bows on the ends of the chairs, going down the aisle. They’re supposed to be tartan, but there must have been a mix up somewhere, because they’re black gingham instead.”

“Oh,” Ms. MacGregor said. “What’s the difference, exactly?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond, but paused before speaking, his mouth partway open, as he wondered if Ms. Gwendolyn MacGregor, with her ginger hair, and soft Scotch accent, might be making a joke.

She continued to look at him expectantly with one severely sculpted eyebrow raised in question, as though Aziraphale were the one being intentionally stupid.

“Well, they’re quite different,” Aziraphale said defensively. “One is a fashionable plaid, and the other is just alternating black and white squares. We’re walking down the aisle to be married, not competing in an automobile race.”

“I can see what I can do about getting them switched out,” she said dismissively, “but they come from the rental company that does the chairs, and I’m not sure that there will be time to order new ones and get them before tomorrow. Is it really that important? I don’t think it will hurt the color scheme at all to use these ones instead.”

Aziraphale, who had spent many hours arguing with Crowley to get this concession to the ban on tartan at the wedding, thought it was very important, and felt his patience quickly evaporating. “Yes, of course it’s important," he snapped. "That’s why I specified which ones I wanted on all the _thousands_ of forms that I had to fill out for the rental agreements.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, again. “But, really, you shouldn’t let the small details like this bother you, or it will ruin your enjoyment of the day.”

“That’s why we hired you to handle all of the small details, so that we wouldn’t have to worry about them,” Aziraphale pointed out. He may have come out sounding a little short, but since the very moment that they had arrived at the park, he hadn’t been able to turn around without someone asking him about some little detail that already should have been taken care of, or else should have been obvious to anyone with a drop of common sense. And now, the one time he actually _cared_, he was being dismissed by the person he had hired to take care of all of it.

Ms. MacGregor let out an irritated sigh and wrote something down on her clipboard. “I’ll see what I can do. Really, it’s practically the same thing, though. It’s nothing to get upset over.”

“It _isn’t_ the same thing,” Aziraphale protested.

She rolled her eyes. “Okay.”

Aziraphale felt his blood boil. He was trying to be reasonable. He was trying to remain calm. It wasn’t too much to ask that they have the decorations that they ordered, but he did understand that mistakes happened. He didn’t want to make a fuss. He just wanted the error corrected. Tartan was not the same as gingham, and the aggravation of this quite obviously Scottish woman, standing here, arguing the point, and acting like he was the one being unreasonable, was just one step too far.

He may have lost his temper, just a bit.

“Don’t bother then,” he snapped. “I’ll take care of it myself.” He waved a hand at her in a dismissive gesture, as he turned on his heels, and she was left gaping down at her black suit that had been transformed into a startlingly red, MacGregor clan, tartan earasaid.

“How’s that for gingham?” Aziraphale muttered under his breath as he stormed out of the tent and down the aisle toward the bandstand. He radiated anger as he snapped his fingers at the bows on the ends of the chairs. They quickly changed to the tartan pattern he’d chosen from the rental catalogue, letting off little motes of steam into the cool October air as they did.

“All right!” he said, clapping his hands together as he reached the bandstand. “Now, let’s figure out the procession. The band is going to start with the first march, and Crowley will come in from the side.”

“Actually,” the violinist said from the bandstand, “we’re still not sure if you want us to set up in here or…” he trailed off at the look in Aziraphale’s eyes. “We’ll just set up here, and we can move later if that doesn’t work,” he suggested, as he melted away into the shadows.

Aziraphale spun on his heels to look for Crowley, and found him still in conversation with Freddie and Anathema, over by where the rental people were setting up the white chairs. Likewise, Yeshua and Adam were lingering at the back, and Madame Tracy and Oscar were seated in one of the middle rows, on contrasting chairs.

“We’re ready for the rehearsal now!” Aziraphale called out, and no one even looked up. “CROWLEY! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE STANDING OVER HERE!”

Crowley glanced up then and, catching the look in Aziraphale’s eyes, hurried over.

“YESHUA, ANATHEMA, YOU’LL BE WALKING UP NEXT. EVERYONE GET OVER HERE, NOW!”

Finally, they were bothered enough to extricate themselves from their separate groups and gather together at the bandstand, like Aziraphale had asked them to do _ten minutes_ ago. Then it was a matter of organizing them into pairs, getting the band to rehearse the timing, and trying to get everyone to pay attention long enough to fall into line and learn where they were supposed to stand. Every time Aziraphale turned his back, one of them had wandered off their mark, to talk to someone else, or had missed their cue in the procession. He was ready to start pulling his hair out. It was like dealing with a bunch of children.

Which was when, with everyone standing up at the bandstand where they were supposed to be, except for him, Aziraphale realized what he’d forgotten completely.

He slumped into an empty black chair at the end of the aisle, put his face into his hands, and let out a deep breath, as it all came crashing down.

Crowley was there before he’d managed to get a good mental breakdown going, and placed an arm over his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“It’s a mess. This is never going to work.”

“I think we have it all figured out now,” Crowley reassured. “Everything will go smoother tomorrow.”

“It isn’t that.”

“What’s wrong then?”

“We forgot about the flower girl and the ring bearer.”

“I didn’t realize that we were going to have those..."

“We have to have them. They look so adorable in the... in the.. ” Aziraphale's voice broke on the end of the sentence, and he had to choke out, "photographs."

“Okay,” Crowley said quickly. “No problem, we’ll find a couple of street urchins to fill in.”

“_STREET URCHINS_?”

"We’ll find someone. It’ll be okay. It’ll be fine. We’ll hire a couple of child actors or something. You won’t have to worry about them missing their cues at least.”

Aziraphale snorted.

The others had all come over to see what was going on by then, and Crowley had explained in a hushed tone, while he rubbed circles on Aziraphale’s back, and Aziraphale made wracking noises that were either sobs or laughter; he wasn’t quite sure himself.

“We can have Dog do it,” Adam suggested. “He’d be brilliant, and he’d look way better in the pictures than some random kids.”

“Honestly,” Anathema said, rolling her eyes. “I know you lot forget that I have a family half the time. To be fair, Newt goes out of his way to make himself forgettable, but you do realize that I have two children right? A boy and a girl? Ages ten and eight?”

Aziraphale looked up abruptly, eyes wide. “You do! Do you think that they could—“

“Be in your wedding?” Anathema asked, wryly. “Yeah, I think we could work something out, since they’re coming anyway. They won’t match the wedding party exactly, but I have a white dress for Agnes to wear, and William’s suit is black anyway. If we can get him a matching tie, he shouldn’t look too out of place.”

“Oh, thank God,” Aziraphale said, closing his eyes and tilting his head skyward in relief.

“I think you mean ‘_thank you, Anathema_.’ Now can we run through this whole thing one last time without mistakes, so we can go to dinner already?”

They ran through it all again without any issues this time, and Aziraphale, while still under considerable pressure, had relaxed appreciably.

-*-

Oscar and Freddie sat in the back row, watching the proceedings.

“Did you get in Adam’s pants yet?” Freddie asked, by way of casual conversation.

“Excuse me?” Oscar asked, startled by the non sequitur.

“Anyone with eyes can see you’re hot after his tailpipe.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Oscar said, though he could guess. “Anyway, he’s the Antichrist.”

“Is he off limits too? I kissed Jesus this morning, but I’m not sure that was the best idea. It puts a damper on the whole thing when you have to worry about lightning bolts coming down from the heavens to roast you like a kabob.”

“I think that’s less of a concern in this case.”

“Ah, right.” Freddie grimaced. “He’s handsome though.”

“Divinely so,” Oscar agreed.

“You going to go for it anyway? I think he’s interested, if it makes any difference.”

“Of course it makes a difference,” Oscar snapped. “What makes you think so?”

“He keeps glaring at me.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Want to kiss me and see how he reacts?” Freddie suggested.

Oscar darted a look over at Adam, and did indeed see a displeased expression on his face. “You think he’s jealous,” Oscar surmised.

“More worried than jealous. If you really do like him, you should tell him so. If you get in good with the boss’s son, it might even make things easier downstairs.”

“Or a whole lot worse, if Lucifer disapproves of the match.”

“How much worse could it get?”

Oscar huffed out a derisive laugh. “One thing you learn down in Hell is that things can _always _get worse,” he said. “How could a relationship like that possibly work, in any case? I’m a condemned soul. I don’t have anything to offer him.”

“If it’s worth it, you’ll make it work, and it’s always worth finding out.”

“Do you speak from experience?”

“Sure,” Freddie agreed. “I’m in a happily committed relationship. We would have done the whole wedding bit ourselves, if it had been legal. Got the rings anyway,” he held up his hand to show Oscar the gold wedding band on his ring finger. “Jim is my husband in every way that counts.”

“Is he… still alive?”

“Oh no. He’s back in Heaven waiting for me. If he were alive he’d be…” Freddie did the math in his head. “Over a hundred by now, I suppose, and I’d still have locked him in the bedroom rather than wasting my time fucking strippers or anyone else.”

“And he doesn’t mind you…_fucking strrippers_?”

Freddie shrugged. “That’s the thing about joys of the flesh; you have to have flesh to enjoy them. Jim is my soul mate, but Upstairs that’s all anyone is: soul. It’s a oneness of being with all things, eternal divine ecstasy, but it isn’t the same. He doesn’t begrudge me a few pleasures while I have the opportunity. It doesn’t change what we mean to each other.”

Oscar sighed at the unfairness of it all, his tone one of resolved sadness when he said, “Meanwhile, I suffer an eternity of torment for the sin of adultery.”

“It’s your guilt weighing you down,” Freddie said. “Let it go. Your wife is dead. You’re a widower, free from obligation. If I were you, I’d take advantage of the opportunities I was given.”

Oscar looked over at Adam then. He was standing up at the bandstand, looking bored while he waited for Aziraphale to decide that they were finished with the rehearsal, but he grinned the moment his eyes met Oscar’s

“How would you go about romancing him?” Oscar asked.

“You’ve had a week to do that,” Freddie said. “If you want to get him into bed before the wedding, it’s time to stop romancing and make a move.”


	14. Swans at The Ritz

The staff of The Ritz had grown quite used to Crowley and Aziraphale over the years—to the point where they no longer had to use any type of magic to ensure that they always had the best table available, and the sommelier was always waiting with a ready bottle when they arrived.

The regulars at any dining establishment are always the subject of gossip: _that man always orders the same wine but never comes in with the same girl twice, _or _that woman will make a huge fuss if you send dressing with her salad, even if it's on the side, _or t_his couple has been coming to celebrate their anniversary every year since he proposed at that table in 1972, isn't that sweet?_

With Aziraphale and Crowley, the conversation went more like this:

_That nice bookish gentleman with the curly white hair and his flash friend in the sunglasses held hands at the table last week. I think they might be together**.**_

** _ Well, of course they're together. Have you seen the way they look at each other?_ **

_Oh, I don't know, they could just be close friends._

** _Put extra cream on the blonde one's cake if you don't believe me._**

_There's something weird about those two._

** _What do you mean? They're so nice. I think they're adorable. _ **

_They've been coming in here at least once a week for the last twenty years, and I'd swear they haven't aged a day. The valet says the one in the sunglasses drives a really nice vintage Bentley. I bet he's a movie producer or something. _

** _They are something of an odd couple, but they're obviously head over heels for each other._ **

_You won't believe what I heard! Mr. Aziraphale and Mr. Crowley booked the private garden and one of the dining rooms for a wedding reception_.

** _Who the hell are Mr. Aziraphale and Mr. Crowley?_ **

T_hey’re that nice couple that always comes in: the man with the old fashioned suit and his boyfriend in the sunglasses. _

** _Wedding reception? I thought they were already married._ **

Through the years, Aziraphale had endeared himself to the staff with his polite and old-fashioned demeanor, his sunny smile, and his obvious enjoyment of the food. Crowley had endeared himself to the staff with the way he alternated between bickering with and doting on Aziraphale. Through all their years of inducing gossip and speculation, with their at least bi-weekly visits, it was still a shock to everyone when a reservation for eight in the name of A.J. Crowley spontaneously appeared in the reservation book. While the staff had simply gotten in the habit of leaving a certain table open, since it was less trouble that way, they had to scramble to clear out a table in one of the small private dining rooms to accommodate the party.

Noting the special occasion, the sommelier had a couple bottles of their best Moet & Chandon on standby for them when they arrived.

The instant they walked through the door, Aziraphale took a deep breath, and all his nerves melted away. A serene expression took its home on his face, and he smiled.

A waiter brought them to their private table, and they enjoyed the type of service that The Ritz’s only regular supernatural customers had come to expect.

The eclectic group of people joining Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell for dinner would be the subject of endless commentary, at least until the wedding reception the following night.

-*-

“So, there's these swans,” was as far as Crowley got into his speech before he was greeted with a chorus of groans. Crowley glared at them, though the effect was mitigated by his sunglasses—one drawback of his chosen eyewear. “I _do _have a point,” he said.

“You _always_ have a point,” Adam grumbled.

“It's just usually something stupid,” Yeshua added. “Like, _that's why you never trust a camel trader in an oilskin_.”

“Or, _the stereotype of witches wearing black frocks and pointed hats is the direct result of years of persecution against amphibious wildlife,_” Anathema said.

“_Giraffes are what happens when a pantomime horse and a child's drawing of a leopard **love each other very much**_,” Freddie suggested.

“_How could an animal that needs an extra brain just to operate its arse be anything other than a joke_,” Adam said with a scowl. “Which was a disproven theory anyway, by the way.”

“_You'd have to be an immortal bird with a spaceship and very particular needs regarding personal maintenance to ever finish watching The Sound of Music_,” Aziraphale said, smiling into his champagne flute.

“That _wasn't _my point,” Crowley told him. “Anyway, shut up, the lot of you. I'm trying to make a speech.”

“You go on, dear,” Aziraphale said, patting his hand consolingly.

“So, there's these swans,” Crowley started again, pausing to look pointedly at his so-called friends, but they remained silent this time, looking at him with mockingly rapt expressions.

“There's these swans,” Crowley said for the third time, just to be clear. “They live in a zoo in Thailand, or India, or America, or somewhere—with a bunch of ducks. I mean that the swans live with a bunch of ducks, not that they live somewhere that has a bunch of ducks … though, there are a bunch of ducks where they live… Anyway, here's these two swans—one black and one white. Male swans, whatcha call em? …drakes? ….ganders?”

“Cobs,” Aziraphale said.

“Right,” Crowley agreed. “Black cob and a white cob-- a mute cob. Anyway, the two cobs mate. They bond. They form a lasting and mutually beneficial _Arrangement_. Whatever you want to call it. They have a gay, interspecies, love connection. They build a nest, settle in, adopt the odd duckling here and there. Life is good.

“Only, the zookeepers, they figure it's just because there aren't any other swans around. They're social animals, you know. They need that pair-bond to thrive. So after a few years, the zookeepers feel kinda bad about forcing the two cobs to make do with their prison marriage to get by, for want of a few birds… or rather, female swans…. Help me out, Aziraphale.”

“Pens,” Aziraphale said.

“Right, no pens in the penitentiary,” Crowley agreed. “So the zookeepers find a couple of single ladies to bring in-- a white pen, and a black pen. But, the cobs didn't want anything to do with them; they were happy together.” Crowley fell silent.

“So, your point is that you and Aziraphale are gay swans?” Adam asked.

“No,” Crowley sneered. “If my point was that we were gay swans, I would have just said _we're gay swans_, I wouldn't have needed to bother with all the exposition.”

“What was the point then?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley sighed. “God made this great, big, wonderful zoo, called Earth, and filled it with ducks--"

“More than just ducks,” Aziraphale argued.

“It's a metaphor, Angel. The humans are the ducks.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale gave their friends a soft smile. “ I like ducks.”

“Yeah, well here's this zoo, whole planet full of ducks, and there's me and you, a couple of mismatched swans, and it might seem like we just fell in together because there weren't any better options, but it isn't like that. This isn't a marriage of convenience; it's a miracle.” Crowley grimaced. “No, not a miracle… a… an incredibly lucky happenstance that defies all odds. Because of all the two mismatched swans to happen to end up in the duck-filled pond together, it was us. So, you know, that one, gay, darkly mysterious, black swan, he's got to be the luckiest swan in the Universe. Because, not only did it turn out that the only other swan in the pond was just his type, but the feeling was mutual.

“That,” Crowley said, taking a sip of his champagne, “is my point.”

“Here's to gay swans,” Adam said, lifting his glass.

-*-

Adam couldn't take his eyes off of Oscar. He blamed the plum suit.

On Aziraphale, the only other person that Adam could imagine wearing a suit like _that_, it would have looked fussy, too many buttons, too many layers, too tidy, everything just so, but Oscar looked anything but prim. There was just something about the richly coloured velvet and Oscar's long legs, the cream of the shirt complementing the cream of his skin, dark waistcoat over broad chest, fall of dark hair over wide shoulders, that made Adam want to run his hands over all of it. He was a vision of cream, and plum, and darkest chocolate, like some kind of dessert—topped with those heavy lidded eyes and a quirked smile.

It was the same suit that Oscar had been wearing when Azazel brought him up from the pits, and Adam had no idea how he'd missed just how striking a figure Oscar cut in it before.

Of course, at the time, he was just Aziraphale’s friend, one more responsibility to go along with his other wedding duties. Now that they'd spent the week together, Oscar was the one who argued extinction theory with him on long rides between London and Oxford, who made jokes about moon walking, and poked fun at Aziraphale, and looked on in wonder at the world around him, and clasped Adam's hand tightly when animatronic dinosaurs ate fictional lawyers.

That night, sitting in front of the fire in The Hundred Guineas Club, had been the start of something. Now, as they lingered over dessert and more champagne, Adam feared this was the end of it.

After the wedding was an uncertain future. Adam hoped that he could work something out with his father on Oscar's behalf, but there were rules in place; rules that were set down by an unforgiving God—at least that had been Adam's experience. What if, after a week of freedom, Oscar was still facing an eternity of torment? What if Adam's promises of advocating his case amounted to nothing, and Oscar's fears that this freedom was nothing more than psychological torture, to make his return to Hell all the worse, were justified? Adam didn't know how he could live with himself after sending Oscar back to _that._ How was he supposed to just go back to studying and living his life, while Oscar burned in Hell?

_And what about the countless other souls, burning in the pits still, who never had a chance at a reprieve?_ Adam asked himself. _Why don't you care about them?_

He supposed that he did, in an abstract way, but those weren't souls he knew personally. The idea of Oscar as just one more faceless soul among the multitudes, one more scream added to the din, as Adam passed heedlessly by on his way to dinner with his biological parents, was more than he could bear.

“Are you feeling well, Adam?” Oscar asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Adam forced a smile on his face, and blinked away the tears that were threatening with little prickles behind his eyes. “I think the champagne is hitting me a little hard,” he said.

Oscar gave his knee a squeeze under the table, faint disappointment on his face. “That's unfortunate, I had rather hoped we might pass another late night together in mutually enjoyable company, but perhaps we should make it an early evening instead. I suppose that you'll want to be well rested tomorrow, for the big event."

“Uh, yeah,” Adam muttered. _I'll shoot myself in my own foot next_, he thought angrily, but then he had an idea. “It's such a long drive back to Oxford, only to turn around and come back in the morning, and I really shouldn't be driving after drinking so much. We have our suits in the car anyway; what do you think of getting a room here for the night?”

“That seems quite sensible,” Oscar agreed.

-*-

It was decided that Anathema and Madame Tracy would bring Aziraphale back to the bookshop, while Crowley went with Yeshua and Freddie to Mayfair. Both parties objected strenuously against the need for separation, but the wedding party would hear none of it.

Adam slipped off to see about renting a room while the rest of them finished off the final bottle of champagne and settled the bill. Yeshua's Heavenly Express, Divine Mastercard really did come in handy.

Freddie slid into Adam's empty chair once he was away. “I should have given you more credit. I would have bet money that you were going to hedge and dither until it was too late,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Room at the Ritz. Not bad at all.”

“Adam thought it would be simpler than traveling back from Oxford in the morning. I don't think he's feeling entirely well.”

Freddie frowned at him. “With that kind of attitude, it's a miracle that you ever managed to commit any acts of _gross indecency_. Or is that kind of complete dismissal of obvious invitations how you went about finding men in the 19th century?”

“I'm Oscar Wilde,” he said. “The men had no problem finding me.”

“How has that been working for you lately?” Freddie asked.

“I haven't put it to the test. You seem to be doing just fine.”

Freddie snorted out a laugh. “I just introduce myself as Freddie Mercury, and they laugh and think it's a Halloween lark. They fall all over themselves for it. I had this fellow on Wednesday who swore up and down that he sucked off the _real Freddie Mercury _outside a club in Soho in 1986. He looked a bit young for it, and if he did, I wouldn't remember it. Then after, he tells me that I don't measure up. It's like that old story you hear about Charlie Chaplin coming in third in a Charlie Chaplin lookalike contest. I didn't know whether I should be insulted or flattered.”

“Have you done anything apart from having sex in the last week?” Oscar asked, honestly curious.

“Course,” Freddie said. “I hung around with Crowley a bit, caught a few concerts, rescued some cats, learned about the internet. Why? What have you been doing with your holiday?”

Oscar had to think about his answer. Mostly, he'd been spending time with Adam. They'd taken a trip to his old alma mater so that Adam could pick up some research materials from the library, and he'd given Oscar a guided tour of the museum. There had been multiple trips to London to assist Aziraphale with the wedding preparations. The picnic outside the airfield, and dinners in restaurants, breakfasts in Adam's flat, lingering conversations over lunch in tea shops, and quiet afternoons spent reading his way through Adam's library while the Antichrist continued his search for the elusive Eustreptospondylus. Oscar hadn't done anything that could be categorized as particularly exciting with his time on Earth, but if it had been a holiday, then it had been an enjoyable one with enjoyable company.

“I've just been remembering what it means to be alive,” he said finally.

“If that's true, I think you've been doing it wrong,” Freddie said.

“Perhaps if I had been spending my time in a heavenly paradise, I would want a bit of rough company and excitement. But, after Hell, a quiet week of simple pleasures was more of a balm to my soul than a hundred brief encounters with willing strangers could have been.”

“That's fair,” Freddie said, after a moment of reflection. “I don't think it's a brief encounter with a stranger that we're talking about now though.”

“Not a stranger,” Oscar said, “but I'm not sure that there's the chance for it to be anything but brief.” He sighed. “The memory of a moment of sweetness and the warm regard of a beautiful man, wrapped in blissful lover's embrace, is better than the regret of a chance not taken, and in the depths of Hell memory is the only sweetness left to succor a tortured soul.”

Freddie winced. “That's dour.”

“The truth often is. I suppose Robert Harrick said it best: _Gather ye rosebuds while ye may_. I shall heed his advice, and yours, and gladly partake in whatever pleasures my final hours on Earth have to offer.”

“No sense waiting for the hammer to fall,” Freddie agreed.

-*-

Adam's approach to dating typically went as follows:

Step 1- Realize he's interested in someone.

Step 2- Ask them out.

Step 3- Exhaustively research them to learn their likes and dislikes in order to come up with a unique and creative dating experience.

Step 4- Goodnight kiss?

Step 5- Spend the next three days flirting via text messages by being clever and funny.

If steps 1-5 go well, he might make it to

Step 6- The use of some mutually agreed upon euphemism that suggests they'll be doing an activity of some kind that isn't sex, but really turns out to be mostly sex.

Steps 7-29 typically iincluded more dates, meetings between friends and family, a romantic weekend getaway, spare clothing and toothbrushes left at each other's flats, and some degree of cohabitation.

Adam's relationships invariably fall apart somewhere between step 30 (actually move in together) and step 35 (meet Adam's _other parents_.)

As Adam arranged to rent a room for the night at one of the nicest, and even more expensive than he was expecting, hotels in London, he couldn't help but feel like he was doing the steps out of order. He also realized that he had no idea how to initiate a sexual advance without a mobile phone, and he wasn't at all sure that he and Oscar were even on the same page. Was _let’s get a room to save on travel time tomorrow _a mutually agreed upon euphemism for _let's spend the night together_? Was _let's spend the night together _even a euphemism for _let's see how many times we can orgasm before we pass out from exhaustion _when you were speaking to someone from the 19th century?

Adam stalled when the concierge asked him if he wanted two queens or a king in his room. _Kind of hoping for both_, he thought, but managed not to say it aloud. He was about to ask for the king, and then started second guessing himself. _Did _Oscar realize that he'd been asking him to bed? He'd thought so, but Oscar might have actually meant that it really did seem sensible to save themselves the drive in the morning by spending the night in London. How embarrassing would it be if Adam got the king bed, and Oscar asked him if there had been a mistake?

That's where the mobile issue came into it again. If it had been anyone else, Adam would have sent a flirtatious text asking, _one bed or two?,_ maybe with a winking emoji face for good measure. Then, within moments, he would have his answer, avoid any embarrassment, and not have to actually look Oscar in the face when he asked.

He opened his mouth to say, ‘_two queens_’ but at the last moment he changed his mind, thought _fuck it, take a chance, _and said, “The single king will be fine.”

If anything, it was a bit less expensive, and if he'd misread the situation, he'd just say that it was the only room left and sleep the uncomfortable sleep of the utterly rejected, on the floor, like a bloody gentleman.


	15. Rushing Headlong into Love

“There are more of them,” Crowley said, upon entering the Mayfair flat to be greeted by a pair of blue eyes looking out from a fluffy face of white fur. “Are they reproducing?”

“Oh, geez, I hope not.” Yeshua stared at the new cat reprovingly. “He's out of control.”

“The cat?”

“Freddie.”

“How many are there?” Crowley asked, looking around.

“Four,” Yeshua said with a sigh, "at last count. I don't even know what all of their names are anymore. Are you sure you don't want one?”

Crowley tilted his head at the cat, and it mirrored the motion. The fluff of white fur and the color of its eyes reminded him of Aziraphale, and he thought that he might not mind having this one around. “Ask me again after the honeymoon. I don't know how Aziraphale will feel about cat hair in the bookshop. Speaking of which, I'll need you to come over to water the plants while we're gone.”

“Sure, if Dad doesn't drag me kicking and screaming back Upstairs after the wedding.”

-*-

Adam and Oscar were joined in the lift by a family of German tourists, and Adam shifted closer to Oscar to make room. He could feel the body heat radiating off the other man, and his nerves ratcheted up another notch. He tried to be unobtrusive as he wiped his sweaty palms on the legs of his jeans.

He'd always been pretty confident before when it came to dating. Maybe it was just the knowledge that he could change the world to his will, even if he would never manipulate another person into being attracted to him, or maybe it was because no one he'd ever considered dating knew his big secret, but he'd never really been all that nervous about it before. It was a kind of insulation, that secret; it was such a big part of who he was, on a fundamental level, that if someone rejected him, without knowing that little bit of information, then they weren't really rejecting him at all—just the person he was pretending to be.

Oscar, on the other hand, knew all about Adam's infernal origins. More than that, Oscar was a condemned soul, only allowed to walk the Earth under Adam’s supervision. That should make him feel more confident, in control, but somehow it didn't. If he made a move, and Oscar reciprocated his advances, would it just be because he was afraid of the consequences of a refusal? Or, perhaps worse, if he did refuse, did that mean he found Adam so detestable that he wouldn't even go along with it knowing what the reprisal could be? But, that was ridiculous; they'd spent a week together now, and Oscar had to know him better than that.

This wasn't just a whim either. He didn't want some quick, no-strings-attached, hook-up. He had connected with Oscar in a way that was more honest and real than he'd ever had with anyone before. Adam thought that he might like to keep Oscar around for a good long while, if the universe, and his father and Grandmother, would be that kind.

Adam wiped his palms on his trouser legs again and tried to take a few measured breaths without sounding like he was about to hyperventilate.

-*-

Aziraphale invited Anathema and Madame Tracy in for a cup of tea, before they returned to Tadfield for the night, and they were sitting in the bookshop, phonograph playing quietly in the background, while they sipped from Aziraphale’s nicest china, tea service.

“Are you feeling nervous about tomorrow?” Anathema asked.

“I think everything will go all right. I’m not as worried about the guests behaving themselves as Crowley seems to be.”

“I meant the marriage part. It’s a big step.”

“Well, we’ve been partners, or adversaries, in one way or another, since God set the world spinning, so I doubt much will really change.”

Anathema made a thoughtful sound. “It doesn’t, at first. Introducing him as your husband instead of your boyfriend takes a bit of getting used to, but apart from that it mostly stays the same for a while. The sex eventually tapers off.”

“Oh?” Madame Tracy asked, sipping her tea with a slightly smug quirk of her brow. “That hasn’t been my experience.”

“Maybe that’s from the kids then,” Anathema said. She let out an exhausted sigh—the sound of overworked and underappreciated mothers everywhere.

“Well, we’ve done the child bit already,” Aziraphale said.

“That isn’t really the same,” Anathema argued. “It isn’t as though you raised Adam.”

“No, not Adam. Warlock Dowling. You can meet him; he’ll be at the wedding tomorrow. He was very prompt about sending back his R.S.V.P.” Aziraphale smiled proudly at the display of proper etiquette-- manners instilled, no doubt, by a certain gardener.

Anathema set her teacup down. “You have a kid? I didn’t know you had a kid. Why isn’t he in the wedding?”

“Well, he isn’t ours exactly… He’s the one that we mistakenly thought was the Antichrist. Crowley was his nanny, and I took a position as the gardener, so that we could influence him away from Armageddon. He had parents, of course, but they weren’t particularly involved. We had the keeping of him for the most part, and I can certainly see why chasing after children would put a damper on any… bedroom activities.”

Anathema snorted. “After chasing two children around all day, the _bedroom activity_ I’m most excited about is sleep.”

“You won’t have to worry about that though, dear,” Tracy said, patting his hand.

They all sipped at their tea for a while, contemplating their respective experiences with life, love, relationships, and child care.

“After a while,” Anathema put in, “You stop trying so hard to impress each other. Once you’re married, he’s not constantly trying to win your affection anymore.”

“That part can be nice though,” Tracy added. “When you aren’t so worried about doing something to scare him away, you can just settle in and be yourself.”

“I think I’ve always been myself,” Aziraphale said, furrowing his brow, as he wondered who else he would be.

“I was never all that worried about scaring Newton away. He’s like a happy little puppy, whatever I do. I suppose it helps when you’re set up by a nice and accurate prophetess ancestor. Agnes wouldn’t have steered me in the wrong direction.”

“I could have used her help with my Mr. Shadwell.”

“She was a fair bit of help keeping Crowley and I out of the soup.”

“And averting Armageddon,” Anathema agreed, “but I still don't need a 17th century witch giving out spoilers for the rest of my life. That's why we burned the book.”

“Burned it?” Aziraphale choked. “I would have kept it for you. And, in any case, all of the prophecies had already been fulfilled; hadn't they? You can't mean to tell me that you destroyed a rare and priceless book out of pure spite?"

“Oh, not that one, the sequel.”

“There's, ah-" Aziraphale coughed and tried to contain his excitement. Mostly he failed; his face lighting up like a child's on Yeshua's birthday. “What's this about a sequel?”

Anathema sipped her tea before answering, and Aziraphale fought the urge to grind his teeth while he waited for her to continue.

“Agnes arranged to send it to the cottage, the morning after… well, _everything_. It was never published, just a manuscript, but like I said, we burned it. It was Newton's idea. An unscripted life, you know?”

Aziraphale instantly swore his undying hatred for Newton Pulsifer, and damned him to whatever circle of Hell they reserved for Nazis and book burners. He tried to force a neutral expression, but mostly failed; his face fell like Lucifer after the rebellion—straight into a boiling lake of sulfur, and eternal rage.

“You might have given it to another interested party,” he said in a clipped tone.

-*-

Adam fumbled with the key card at the door to their room, not quite managing to get the proper orientation on the magnetic strip on his first three tries. When he finally did manage to get it open, he briefly considered wishing Oscar a good night and fleeing back down to the lobby to book a second room, but he steeled his nerves and followed Oscar inside.

They stood awkwardly for a moment, both looking at the single king-sized bed. A number of possible sentences passed through Adam's mind all at once: _I didn't think you'd mind sharing,_ or _This was the only room left; you can have the bed,_ or _I don't plan on doing much sleeping, _or _Since this is your last night here, I thought that there might be a few more experiences we could share, or I'm the fucking Antichrist; I'll just hang upside down in the cupboard like a bat._

Then, Oscar was saying, “This looks cozy.”

And, what came out of Adam's mouth was, “This was the only room with a bat in the cupboard.”

Oscar furrowed his brows. “I don't believe that I'm familiar with that idiom.”

Adam wanted to facepalm. He still held their suits awkwardly up in one hand, so they wouldn't brush the floor. He ignored the question, and used the easy excuse for a tactical retreat. “Just give me a second, and I'll hang these up.”

He found the cupboard, noting that it was bat-free and plenty spacious enough to hide one morbidly-embarrassed Antichrist with still enough room left over to hang their suits. He hooked the hangers over the bar and closed the door, then he just stood there staring at the closed door for a moment as he took a few deep breaths.

If he really wanted to do this, he had to do it right. He had to just lay it all out there on the table: full on emotional love confession, with a discussion about _feelings. _Adam didn't like discussing _feelings. _Emotions just seemed to complicate everything, and voicing them aloud made him feel weak and vulnerable. The very idea of losing his careful measure of control over something as inconsequential as a romance made him uneasy and faintly disgusted with himself, but going into this half-cocked wouldn't be fair to Oscar, so he steeled himself and turned around—ready to pour out his pathetic little heart like a love-sick, teenage girl.

Only, Oscar was standing right there behind him. Either Adam had been too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice, or Oscar had moved more quietly than such a big man had any right to.

“I--" Adam started, but his mind failed to find any words to follow, and then Oscar was kissing him.

_So, definitely on the same page then,_ he thought, shocked, but before he could reciprocate the kiss Oscar was pulling away again.

“I should apologize,” he mumbled, turning away.

“Wait, what?” Adam was still trying to find his bearings.

“I shouldn't have presumed…” Oscar was saying, and Adam grabbed him by the arm to pull him around to face him.

“You just caught me by surprise,” Adam said. “I was getting ready to make this big speech about how much I've come to like you and how nice it's been having you around this week, and you... skipped ahead.”

“You were?”

“Well, yeah,” Adam rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck, wincing, and Oscar smiled at him.

“Go on then.”

“What? The speech?”

“Yes.”

“I can't do it _now.”_

“Why ever not?”

“You _kissed_ me.”

“I should think that would make it easier.”

“Yeah, you might think that, but there was all this nonsense about how complicated any relationship between the two of us would be, and how I have no way of guaranteeing what tomorrow will bring, and how I'm a huge idiot when it comes to this stuff, and well… now you kissed me and I don't want to ruin my chances…” A nervous laugh escaped his lips.

Oscar's expression had softened from apprehension to amusement. “I don't think there's much worry of that. I've grown quite fond of you as well, and there's never any guarantee of what tomorrow will bring.”

“Yeah, for most blokes it isn't ‘_there's a good chance you'll be tortured for the rest of eternity under my father's oversight,’ _though.”

“That hasn't been so far from my previous experiences,” Oscar said with a wince.

“I can't see you get sent back to that,” Adam said. He felt helpless, and he knew that he was ruining the moment even as he said it, but he couldn't help it.

It wasn't fair. Not that he should expect anything else by now. Whatever kind of normal life he was trying to make for himself, he was the son of Satan, and he had finally come to accept that. He spent his weekends in Hell. Jesus Christ was his uncle, and sometimes they got pissed together and started carpentry projects in the middle of the night, and had a slash in some of Crowley's flowerpots. His mother was a demon with a penchant for goats, who liked to hang out at Adam's flat and watch pornography. His grandmother was an all-powerful, supreme being, the embodiment of love, and had told him to _go to Hell_, quite literally, the one time he had spoken to Her. His godfathers were a couple of immortal idiots who were finally getting married tomorrow, after a six thousand year courtship that seemed to have mostly consisted of Aziraphale pretending that he didn't notice how much Crowley was in love with him. He had a pet hellhound and a dinosaur that wasn't exactly a pet, but wasn't precisely _not a pet_ either. Adam had a lot going on in his life. Since he'd turned eleven, his life had just been a long series of complications, and now, with any luck, he was going to fuck Oscar Wilde into the mattress, and wave a fond farewell to any thought that it would all get less complicated.

That was it, the final straw. Time to embrace the madness and go screaming and moaning into that long night. Or… something like that anyway.

Adam grabbed Oscar by the lapels of his ridiculous plum suit and pulled him down for another kiss—one with _two_ eager participants.

-*-

Freddie had been left outside in the Bentley when they had returned to Mayfair, with strict instructions that he wouldn't be allowed into the flat until he _fixed it_.

He’d moved to the driver’s seat, to better commune with the machine, feeling stupid as he rapped his fingertips against the steering wheel and tried to figure out how to let a car down gently.

“It's not you; it's me,” he tried, but even when he was talking to a car that seemed like a pathetic line.

The stereo clicked on, and Freddie heard his own voice singing back to him: _It started off so well. They said we made a perfect pair._

“Yeah,” Freddie said. “It was fun. I enjoyed our drive, but it just isn’t going to work out between us.”

_I can’t live without you,_ his voice sang back to him in another scrap of lyrics.

“That’s not true. You don’t need me. You wouldn’t want me anyway; I’m a mess. And, besides, I'm taken,” Freddie said, “and you're a car. You're a lovely car, but you just aren't my type.”

_I’m in love with my car, gotta feel for my automobile._

Freddie groaned. “That one isn't even mine. That's all Roger, and it was a sort of a joke.”

The music shifted, and _Don't Stop Me Now_ started playing instead. Freddie started tapping his fingers against the steering wheel again, in futile agitation.

_I’m a racing car, passing by like Lady Godiva._

This whole conversation was starting to feel like an argument with himself.

_I’m burnin’ through the sky, yeah. Two hundred degrees. That’s why they call me Mister Fahrenheit. I’m traveling at the speed of light. I wanna make a supersonic man out of you._

Freddie grimaced. He wondered if it might not just be easiest to try giving the gear stick a blow, after all, despite Crowley’s objections. He eyed it, considering, But, no. This was ridiculous. He didn’t owe anything to Crowley’s mad car. He’d explained himself. He’d tried to be polite. He really was flattered, but he had to draw the line somewhere.

“How about, ‘_I want to ride my bicycle’. _Do you know that one?” he asked.

The music fell silent.

Freddie smiled to himself, thinking that perhaps he’d finally gotten his point across.

The engine suddenly turned over and revved, though Freddie hadn’t touched the key. The headlamps clicked on.

He sat up straighter in the seat and looked around. “What?” he started, but was cut off as the Bentley jolted forward and sped into the flow of traffic.

He grabbed the steering wheel, and pumped ineffectually at the breaks. “What the hell?”

Roger’s drum beats started rolling through the Bentley’s interior, thumping through Freddie’s chest with a palpable, percussive impact, and he knew the song instantly and felt the cold grip of fear as he heard his own voice sing out the opening line.

_And you’re rushing headlong you’ve got a new goal_

_And you’re rushing headlong out of control_

_And you think you’re so strong_

_But there ain’t no stopping and there’s nothin’_

_You can do about it_

_Nothin’ you can do_

_No there’s nothin’ you can do about it_

_No there’s nothin’ you can, nothin’ you can,_

_Nothin’ you can do about it_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [Headlong](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zhyaAPsT1LU) if you need a jam.


	16. Manifesting a Horizontal Desire

Heart hammering in his chest, every breath filled with Oscar's scent, his cock making its presence known with a demanding and distracting pressure in his pants, Adam broke the kiss and let his head fall against Oscar's chest. After a few deep breaths, he pulled back and brushed his hands over Oscar's shoulders and down the arms of the jacket that he'd been so admiring all night. He liked the way the velvet felt under his palms and the feel of Oscar, solid, beneath it.

“Any particular way you want to do this?” Adam asked, a thrill of nervous energy making his voice shake.

Oscar caught Adam’s hand as it started to trail down his waistcoat, and held it still for a moment until Adam looked up to meet his eyes. “What do you want?” he asked, sounding a whole hell of a lot steadier than Adam felt.

“No preferences.” He tried to seem nonchalant, and shrugged one shoulder awkwardly. “I like a bit of everything.”

Oscar hummed, “So you've said.” He released Adam's hand to dip into the pocket of his waistcoat, and pulled out the strip of condoms that Adam had given him on the night they met. “I was informed, by a young friend of mine,” he said, “that I should wear one of these, if I wanted to stick my cock in anything with a heartbeat.”

Adam let his face fall into the plush velvet of Oscar's shoulder and shuddered, as he let out a helpless laugh. It broke some of the tension he was feeling.

“That's solid advice,” he agreed, “but we might be getting a little ahead of ourselves. How about I peel you out of this suit first?”

“I do recall the mention of a banana,” Oscar said, smiling. “Peel away.”

“That's not what-" Adam started, but then he looked up to see the playful look on Oscar's face. “Never mind. We'll worry about the practical demonstration later.” He slid Oscar's jacket off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor, then he fingered the ascot open and pulled it loose. He held it to his face for a moment, breathing in the masculine smell clinging to the cream lace, and then he cast it aside to join the jacket on the floor.

Oscar's eyes had fallen half-lidded, hands gripping Adam's hips, as Adam unbuttoned his waistcoat, slipped it off to add to the growing pile, and started on the buttons of his shirt.

The sheer amount of effort to get Oscar undressed was taking the edge off of his need, and he couldn't help but wonder, “Was that Victorian attitude toward sex just because it takes too long to get your kit off, so that, by the time you're both undressed, you're too tired to get down to business?” His fingers seemed either too shaky, or too big to handle the row of tiny, mother-of-pearl buttons.

Oscar snorted. “Might I lend a hand?”

“You'd better, or we'll be here all night.”

Adam dropped his hands away and let Oscar tend to the buttons.

“Do you have somewhere else pressing to be?” he asked.

“No,” Adam said, dropping to his knees as he fumbled at the front of Oscar's trousers instead_. “_I do, however, have better things to do than learning about the intricacies of Victorian tailoring. _Damn these buttons_.”

“I don't know which department of Hell handles tailoring for temporarily corporated souls, but the whole suit is infernal in origin—buttons included.”

Adam huffed. “Azazel probably made it for you. No one else would have picked such a ridiculous colour.”

“You don't like the colour?”

Adam gave up on the buttons and mouthed at Oscar through the fabric instead, feeling the heat of him even through the thick fabric. “You're every Literature major's wet dream in this suit.”

“What about the paleontology students?” Oscar asked.

“For the past week at least,” Adam admitted. “The possibility had never crossed my mind before that, but I think the full effect of your legs in these trousers has to be experienced in person.”

“You'll have to remind me to thank Azazel then.”

“If you mention one word about any of this to _my mother_, I'll never forgive you,” Adam said against the bulge in the aforementioned trousers.

“There won't be much to tell if we don't hurry this along.” Oscar bit his lip against a moan. “It's been far too long since I’ve had a blonde lordling between my legs.”

“Prince of Hell,” Adam corrected, with a growl, “and if you ever compare me to Bosie _fucking _Douglas again, it'll be a lot longer.”

“There's no comparison,” Oscar agreed quickly.

“Is he in Hell?” Adam asked, as he gave Oscar a reprieve, and went back to the buttons.

“What?”

“Douglas. I have a sudden urge to feed him to my dinosaur. Him and his father both.”

“Oh,” Oscar said. “I have no idea.”

“If he's in Heaven, I'm done with the whole thing.”

“Is now really the time, A-Adam?” Oscar asked, ending with a hitch in his breath, as Adam finally managed the fastenings on his trousers, and pushed them down over his hips.

At the same time, Oscar undid the final button of his shirt and shrugged it off, even as he was bending to unlace his shoes and step out of his trousers.

And, Adam was laughing at him.

He froze, uncertainly. “Is something amusing?” he asked.

“You're,” Adam choked, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “You're.. No, I can't even…” Adam sank down into a seated position on the floor, unable to contain his giggles. “All of_ that_, and you're still fully clothed.”

Oscar looked down at himself, understanding Adam's amusement at his current state of undress, as it were-- ankle-length drawers, and a low-waisted undershirt. “I suppose my small clothes are rather modest, by your modern standards,” he admitted. He extended a hand down to Adam and drew him back to his feet. “However, I think you're the one who's overdressed.”

Adam laughed. “I bet I can still get out of all this before you can unbutton your…_underwear_.”

“Is that a wager?” Oscar asked with a sly smile. “What are the stakes?”

Adam considered a moment. “Winner's choice?”

“_Dangerous _proposition,” Oscar opined.

Adam shrugged, “Either way, we'll both be naked by the end of it. Under the circumstances, I call that a win-win scenario.”

“Agreed,” Oscar said. “GO!”

He started in on his buttons before Adam realized the game had started, but even so, Adam had his shirt pulled over his head before Oscar had one arm out of his undershirt. He toed off his trainers, unbuckled his belt, and shucked off his jeans and pants all in one go. He was pulling his socks off while Oscar was still cursing the button fly of his drawers.

Adam stood naked before him, golden skinned, with a fine scattering of pale hair leading down to a nicely proportioned, half-erect cock, and Oscar stumbled as he pulled his long legs free of his drawers.

Adam reached out an arm to steady him, and Oscar finally managed complete nudity, as they both laughed and clung to each other.

“Victory is yours, my dear Antichrist,” Oscar said, humble in defeat. “Name your forfeit.”

Adam let his eyes rove over the pale expanse of lightly freckled flesh finally revealed, and then smirked a bit when he said, “Elastic.”

“Pardon?”

“Elastic,” Adam said again. “No more union suits and undergarments that cover you from neck to ankles. That's my forfeit. Tomorrow, I want you in pants with an elastic waistband.”

“You have me utterly at your mercy, and you've decided to dictate my small clothes? How very devilish.”

“Well,” Adam said, moving to press himself into Oscar. “I only have another, guaranteed, 24 hours with you. If I get a chance to lure you into a broom cupboard during the wedding reception, tomorrow, I don't want to waste time trying to _unbutton_ your underwear_._”

Oscar licked his lips, cheeks dimpling around the smile he was fighting back. “That seems sensible.”

“I'm a sensible man,” Adam said, feeling it at least half a lie. He had to stand on his tiptoes to reach Oscar's lips, and curled his fingers into the man's hair to pull him down for another brief kiss. “Now, I think we should try out that nice, big bed.”

-*-

As the Bentley sped through the streets of London, gliding in and out of traffic, and continued to _not_ crash into a flaming ball of wreckage with Freddie trapped inside, his terror slowly abated into wary irritation.

He gave up his attempts to force the car under his control, and eventually just slumped into the seat and crossed his arms over his chest in defeat.

He decided to wait it out. The needle of the fuel gauge was already resting on empty. It was only a matter of time before it ran out of petrol completely and sputtered to a halt. He had no illusions that the locks on the doors would let him out when it did, but perhaps he'd be able to get the attention of some passersby, and the authorities could cut him out of Crowley's precious Bently, with the jaws of life, if need be.

-*-

Yeshua took a couple more bottles of beer from the fridge and brought them over to Crowley on the couch. “Freddie's taking an awful long time. You don't think he's actually… _you know?_” Yeshua made a lewd hand motion while he pushed out his cheek with his tongue.

“_Gah_! Don't **_do_** that.” Crowley pulled a face and snatched one of the bottles from Yeshua, popping the cap off with a flick of his thumb. He took a deep swig from the neck of the bottle. “The Bentley has a date with a vat of disinfectant when this is all over.”

Yeshua shrugged. “What a consenting adult and a self-aware, vintage automobile get up to in the privacy of… a public street…” he trailed off a bit. “I mean, you should let the old girl out for a spin once in a while.”

“The relationship that a man shaped being has with his car is a sacrosanct … erm… well… that's a bond that should be respected. You don't just throw a century of symbiotic existence between car and driver out the rear window for the first hyper-sexualized rock star that saunters by.”

Yeshua blinked at him. “You're jealous.”

Crowley scoffed, but his posture stiffened from its usual fluidity, like a snake deciding whether it should strike or curl into a defensive ball. “That’s ridiculous.”

“So, you don’t mind The Bentley’s sudden obsession with Freddie, then?”

“Trust me, it isn’t sudden. I’ve been putting up with this since1973. The only difference is now the Bentley has a real person to malfunction over, instead of just transmogrifying all of my tapes and compact discs.” Crowley frowned. “He has been down there a long time. Maybe we should check up on him.”

-*-

Adam had seen Oscar perform fellatio, albeit on a tiny, plastic, penis straw. It had been impressive. Truthfully, the sight had had him squirming somewhat uncontrollably in his seat. The point was, he thought that he'd known what to expect. And, anyway, he'd been on both the giving and receiving end of oral sex before, from both men and women, on enough occasions that it shouldn't be a particularly novel experience. When you put your cock into someone's mouth, it felt nice; there wasn't much more to be said about it. You could read all the wikihow articles you wanted for blowjob tips, but the main thing was just to keep your teeth mostly out of the way, give some suction, bob your head bit, work the shaft, don't neglect the balls, and try not to gag. Once you had the hang of it, and got the rhythm down, anyone could do it. There wasn't all that much skill involved. One mouth was much the same as any other, right?

Wrong.

He'd been oh so very, _very_, wrong.

It was like comparing DaVinci to someone’s aunt doing a paint by number Mona Lisa. It was like comparing Mozart to a child's piano recital. It was like comparing Oscar Wilde to… that one bloke, named Kevin, that he'd met in one of his literature classes his first year of university, who wrote _really _bad poetry, and had once sucked him off in the gents, after dragging him to a poetry slam at one of the coffee shops near campus.

Yeah, it was exactly like that. In a world full of Kevins, Oscar Wilde was king. And, he should give up that writing nonsense to follow his true calling-- sucking Adam's cock for the rest of eternity.

Or… no…

Adam had half an instant to try to get a handle on his thoroughly derailed train of thought, a moment to make a noise of complaint at the loss of that wonderful mouth, a second to start to get his faculties in order enough to open his eyes to see what Oscar was doing, and then… yeah,… that was a tongue in his…

_“Ahhhhhhh._”

Adam's legs were shaking, and he had to fight his body's sudden need to twitch, and spasm, and convulse, like some kind of epileptic codfish.

This, unlike the blow jobs, was not a form of oral sex that Adam had any great experience with, but he was pretty sure that Oscar was a master of the art anyway.

Adam was busy slowly losing his mind, melting into a puddle of jelly and raw nerves, and composing sonnets about Oscar's talented tongue, when this new level of nirvana also came to an abrupt end.

“Do you have oil?”

“_Hmmm? _What?” Adam asked dreamily. “Are you going to paint me like one of your Florentine silk merchant's wives.”

“_Adam_?”

“If we're going to hang someone's smile in the Louvre, I think it should be yours. Your mouth is a masterpiece.”

Oscar chuckled. “I see that I've left you senseless. Do we have any oil?”

“Oil?” Adam wasn't sure that _he_ was the one talking nonsense. What kind of oil? Engine oil? Cooking oil? Lamp oil? _Whale oil_? Did Oscar want to hunt a whale? No, that was Melville, or maybe Hemmingway… He giggled. “Just put my moby dick back in your blow hole.”

“I would very much like to bugger you into further insensibility,” Oscar said, “but without a little slick, that's a daunting prospect. I want you squirming and blabbering more lovely nonsense, not gritting your teeth through it, my dear.”

“Oh, _lube,_” Adam gave him a dopy smile. “We don't use various household products for lubrication in the 21st century. Only disgusting, drunken demons, and weepy angels do that. It's a crime against basic human decency… and basic hygiene. It's definitely a crime against overstressed Antichrists who just want to worry about exams, and not have to go into creepy, adult bookstores to buy lube for their godfathers.”

Oscar was giving him a concerned look.

“Right,” Adam blinked through his euphoria and tried to focus. “We forgot about lube. I planned a seduction and completely forgot about lube. We could just use… spit?” Adam grimaced. No. Lube… lube… an array of complimentary, single use, hotel bath soaps and lotions flashed through his mind's eye, and he felt utterly disgusted with himself. What was he even thinking? He wasn't some powerless, former supernatural being in a depressive downward spiral of sex, alcohol, and crying. He was the goddamned Antichrist. He moved the world to his will. And, right now, his will was to have Oscar Wilde's dick buried so deep in his arse that he wouldn't be able to walk straight for a week.

He'd raised the city of Atlantis. He'd initiated first contact. He'd set the kraken loose on the likes of Ernest Hemingway. What was a little personal lubrication, compared to all that?

He pulled himself together, and concentrated for a moment. He shivered. “Oh, that's bloody _weird_.”

There was a sensation like a warm bubble forming inside him-- growing and stretching. Adam shifted his hips, beneath Oscar, unable to hold still in the midst of it. There was a rush of pleasure as the bubble seemed to pop, and Adam cried out.

“_Adam_?” Oscar's voice sounded concerned. “Are you all right?”

“Gah,” was all Adam could say. He let out a shuddering breath that ended in a moan, the noise coming from him guttural and practically inhuman.

“Adam?”

“Yeah? All right. Great. Never been better.” His next shaky exhale was almost a laugh. “I should have thought to try that when I was fifteen.”

“What have you done?” Oscar asked, brows furrowed.

Adam reached down for his hand, and guided it to his opening. Oscar seemed to get the idea and breached him with one of those lovely, large fingers. Adam met his eyes, as he whimpered and bore down on it.

“You're as wet as a shepherdess on Beltane,” Oscar said in wonder.

“Advantages of dating the Antichrist.”

“Is that what we're doing?” Oscar added another finger.

“If you want,” Adam said, breath hitching. “If it's allowed.”

“I think I do want that,” Oscar said, “and I'm not sure that I care if it's allowed or not.”

“Great,” Adam said. “Glad we're on the same page. Now, would you like me to put that condom on for you, or do you think you can figure it out?” As delighted as he was with the prospect of trying to make a go of things with Oscar, he had more pressing needs, just at the moment, than discussing long-term relationship goals.

“You did promise me a practical demonstration.” Oscar added a third finger, and he didn't stop the steady motion of his hand the entire time that Adam attempted to open the foil wrapper and roll it onto him.

In terms of practical demonstrations of the proper way to apply a condom, Adam thought that it would have been more informative, and with considerably less cursing, if he _had_ been using the banana. It also would have been much easier to concentrate if Oscar's long fingers hadn't found his prostate, or at least he'd have been less worried that he was going to come all over both of them before he'd managed the nearly impossible feat of finding the correct direction to roll the thing on.

Oscar looked down when Adam was finished. “Is my sausage safely cased?”

Adam, relieved that he didn't have to concentrate anymore, let his head fall back against the pillows. “They d-don't make them out of sausage casings anymore. No lamb intestines; only the.. finest, _Ahh-_Antichrist-crafted… latex for you.”

He was almost relieved when Oscar pulled his fingers out. He’d been on the edge so many times already, but he wanted Oscar's cock inside him before he came, at least this first time.

He closed his eyes and let out a gasp as Oscar entered him. And, it just felt so right. He knew it was the endorphins and the serotonin rushing through his system, making him feel ready to swear himself utterly to this man, as they grunted and thrust their way to the sweetest oblivion, but that didn't make the feeling any less real.

The science of love was just one piece of the bonds that people form with one another-- just another part of the complexity of humanity, but not the whole of it. What a scientific mind composes in data and chemical reactions, the poet quantifies in well versed metaphor. It all came down to the same thing.

Love was love, and Adam Young had fallen deeply, and completely, in love with Oscar Wilde.

The orgasm had _almost_ nothing to do with it.

-*-

“Not again,” Crowley said, staring at the empty spot where his Bentley was supposed to be parked.

“He probably just took it to a club or something,” Yeshua said. “One last chance to sin before he goes back to Heaven.”

Crowley growled. “He's supposed to be fixing it, not compounding the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Bentley has been sulking for a week because Freddie decided to snog a couple of strippers out on the pavement. What do you think would happen if he tries to have sex in the backseat?”

Yeshua shrugged. “A really weird automotive three-some?”

Crowley choked.

“Well, I don't know,” Yeshua said, helplessly. “They're gone. Maybe Freddie just took the car for a drive to try to work things out. There isn't much we can do about it either way.”

Crowley frowned. “Hang on a sec.” He fished into the pocket of his leather jacket and came out with a set of keys with a flying “B", medallion key fob. “How's he supposed to take it anywhere without the keys?”

They exchanged a worried look and both scanned up and down the street, as though a vintage Bentley might suddenly appear.

“Enough of this. Freddie had better hope he isn't doing anything… _strenuous_; spontaneously having all of your atoms transported across London is not at all pleasant. That's why I have the Bentley. This is going to hurt.”

He winced in sympathy as he raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

Nothing happened.

“Well, _fuck._”

-*-

Hours had passed, and while the needle on the Bentley's fuel gauge continued to rest resolutely on zero, the car showed no sign of stopping, and as Freddie had heard over, and over, _and over_, again on a loop in all that time, there was nothing he could do about it.

He'd tried singing along to the music; he'd attempted fruitlessly to turn it off; he'd screamed; he'd covered his ears, curled into a ball, and quietly wept, but while _he used to be a man with a stick in his hand_, he was _rushing headlong, down the highway_, and it _ain't so groovy when you're screaming in the night_, but_ there ain't no stopping, and there's nothing you can do about it._

_No, there's nothin’ you can do about it._

_Nothin' you can do about it at all._

Freddie feared that he was going more than just _slightly mad_. He was _one card short the full deck, not quite the shilling, one wave short of a shipwreck, _but in Crowley's Bentley he was always, _always, _top billing.

-*-

Oscar was adrift in a foggy haze of arousal, like slipping into a hot bath, or a long drag off the first cigarette of the day. He felt simultaneously as though he had left his body completely, and as though he had never so fully inhabited it.

It had been so long since he'd experienced this level of complete immersion in the moment, that he'd forgotten what it could feel like, to lose yourself inside another person, to feel each new wave of pleasure crash violently into the tattered shell of your body like breakers against a rocky shore, leaving you a gasping and shuddering mess, fearful the next wave will shatter you completely, even as you seek it out with clutching hands and bruising lips.

Adam was like an inferno, but Oscar was happy to burn for the rest of eternity, if only it could be an eternity in this moment. He would pledge himself fully to the fires and smile as he blazed in the heated regard of Adam's affections.

He would bask in the heat of Hades, find pleasure in perdition, and peace in pandemonium. His lips would be filled with prayers of thanks to God for His eternal condemnation, gratitude for every torment, that it had brought him to this moment.

He would—

There was a shrill sound from their pile of discarded clothing on the floor, and Oscar's eyes flew open. Adam's cheeks hollowed one final time with a hard suck, and he released Oscar's member with a wet, popping sound, and looked up. His cheeks were flushed, and his blonde curls were a messy halo around his head. He blinked heavy eyes up at Oscar, as his mobile continued its banshee shriek, and intruded in upon the moment.

“I thought I turned that fucking thing off,” Adam grumbled.

Oscar admired the stretch of muscle under tanned skin, as Adam sprawled across the end of the bed to fumble through the pile of clothing for his telephone.

He looked at the screen, disturbingly bright in the low light of the room, seemed to consider the screaming thing for a moment, then grunted in irritation, as he swiped at it with one forefinger and held it to his ear.

“This had better be good,” he said, even as he moved to straddle Oscar's hips again.

There was a faint noise of someone speaking on the other end.

“What do you mean _gone_?” Adam asked, reaching down between them to idly stroke Oscar's erection. “I told you not to park it on the street.”

Noticing that Adam's erection had started to flag as his attention was called away by the conversation, and feeling fiendish, Oscar reached between them to do a bit of stroking of his own-- less idly, and with a bit more feeling.

Adam's breath hitched, and he made a startled grunt, looking down at Oscar with wide, accusing eyes.

“Well, _unh_, does he have a mobile phone? He's probably just gone for a drive. _Uhhh.”_ Adam's eyes dropped closed, hand gripping Oscar a bit too tightly, as he thrust into the fist around his cock.

“What? No. Dog's in Hell for the weekend. _I don't bloody know_. Call Anathema; I'm a bit busy at the moment.”

More disgruntled noises from the other side of the call, and Oscar gave a few hard strokes of his fist.

“_Ohhhh, you complete arse,_” Adam gasped out, moaning, thighs clenching around Oscar's hips, as his chin fell against his chest, and he sucked in a couple of harsh breaths.

“What?” he said into the phone after a moment to compose himself. “No, not you. Bugger off, Crowley. I'm not your best man. You and Yeshua figure it out, or call Anathema. I told you; I'm busy, and so help me, if you dare to complain about this after everything you've put me through for the last five years.”

Adam aggressively ended the call and tossed his phone aside, then turned his attention to Oscar with a hungry look in his eyes. “_That_ was not a very gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Wherever did you get the idea that I'm a gentleman?” Oscar asked.

-*-

“Oscar _fucking _Wilde,” Crowley snarled at his phone. “What is it about that poncy, Irish _twat_ that leaves everyone frothing at the mouth?”

“I thought he seemed nice,” Yeshua said.

“You think everyone is _nice_,” Crowley snapped back, making it sound like an insult.

Yeshua turned the other cheek. “What do you want to do now?”

“I guess we'll call Anathema.”

-*-

“Anathema’s phone,” Madame Tracy said brightly, when Crowley called.

They were just puttering over a flyover, crossing the M25, in Newton's old wasabi. Anathema’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and she was leaning far over the dash, squinting into the dim radius of light cast out from the headlamps, her nose nearly touching the windscreen.

“Who is it?” she asked, as they rounded a turn a bit too fast (the proscribed speed for turning in the Wasabi, being roughly the speed of a lame snail) and the chassis gave a worrying tip over to the passenger side.

“It's Mr. Crowley,” Tracy said. “He says that his car is missing.”

“_Again_?”

“Yes, well… I'm sorry; what was that Mr. Crowley? _Absconded?_ Oh, my, yes. That does sound serious. Witchcraft? I'm not sure… yes, well, I'll ask her.” Tracy moved the phone away from her mouth and said, “Crowley wants you to check to see if they're still in England.”

Anathema sighed. She clicked on the hazard lights and pulled the Wasabi over onto the hard shoulder.

“_A crisis is an opportunity riding the dangerous wind. Dangerous enemies will meet again in narrow streets_,” chimed the electronic voice of the Wasabi’s navigational computer, in a melodic, Asian accent. Anathema thought it sounded rather ominous.

“I think there’s a map in the glove compartment.”

The Wasabi was not a car that was made for passengers. It was barely a car that was made for drivers. Tracy had to unfasten her safety belt and half-crouch in her seat to get the glove compartment open, while Anathema searched through the contents to find a tattered road map.

“Yes, hold on, Mr. Crowley,” Tracy said into the phone as they attempted to unfold the map inside the cramped confines of the car. There were some elbows into ribs, a bit of accidental groping, and Madame Tracy sustained a papercut to the eye, before they gave it up as a bad job, and Anathema took the map outside to spread it over Dick Turpin’s blue bonnet instead.

“_Life is a journey. Time is a river. The door is ajar_,” chimed the mechanical voice, still sounding nothing at all like an 18th century English highwayman.

“I need a pin or something,” Anathema said.

Madame Tracy reached into her bob and felt around until she found a hairpin and pulled it out. “Would this work, dear?”

Anathema took it and stretched the prongs apart until she had a single, long, sliver of metal. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her feelings of animosity towards Crowley’s rolling crime against the environment.

She knew the moment that the hairpin touched the map that she had an accurate lock on the car. She could feel the magic thrumming through her body. She opened her eyes and squinted down at the map. “Definitely still in England,” she muttered, “but it's too dark to see. Here, give me my mobile.”

Anathema ignored Crowley for the moment and turned the flashlight feature on with one hand, while holding the hairpin in place with the other. “It looks like it's on the A40, just past…” Anathema broke off as the usual noise of traffic passing was surpassed by pounding rock music and the roar of an engine, as a pre-war, hulk of a Bentley swerved through the congestion and blew past them at 90 mph.

She brought the phone up to her ear. “Yeah, it’s on the A40, just past the M25 flyover, heading towards Gerrards Cross.”

“You're sure?” Crowley asked.

“Pretty sure,” Anathema said. “It just drove past us.”

“We'll be there in a moment,” Crowley said, darkly, and the line went dead.

A moment later, Crowley and Yeshua were lying in the verge on the side of the road. Crowley was cursing and spitting as he struggled to his feet, and Yeshua was gibbering in Aramaic and clutching his head.

“I told you it was awful,” Crowley said, holding out a hand to Yeshua.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stole the Wasabi's haiku from The Dresden Files, because I was tickled with the obvious overlap, and I couldn't resist. I did decide to use the original Wasabi instead of the Reliant Robin from the show (though, perfect substitute that.)


	17. Riding in Cars with Boys

The Wasabi was a commuter car. It was ideally suited to puttering forward five feet at a time, at irregularly spaced intervals, in gridlock traffic. Similarly, it did just fine at a stately 20 mph through busy London streets. It had excellent fuel economy, unsurpassed by any vehicle on the road, save for Crowley's Bentley; it very frequently needed no petrol at all, due to the frequent mechanical failures that left it parked in the garage, while its owners waited for parts to be shipped, and The Pulsifers employed even more environmentally friendly, alternative transportation.

It was not, however, designed to comfortably transport passengers. Nor, was it at all suited to hundred mph car chases down the M40.

Crowley hurt all over from his transportation. His very atoms felt scrambled, and it only occurred to him, after helping a quivering and coughing Yeshua into the Wasabi's passenger seat, that it would have saved them all a great deal of trouble if he had exercised that ability to transport them directly into the Bentley instead. He couldn’t even bear the thought of a second transportation so soon after the first, so he put up with his inner monologue cursing him out soundly, while he used a quick application of magic to create a backseat for Anathema and Madame Tracy to squish into, and hoped that no one spotted his oversight. It was just lucky that Aziraphale wasn’t there to mock him. He told himself that it probably wouldn’t have worked anyway. If he was unable to transport Freddie out of the Bentley, chances were that he wouldn’t have been able to transport himself into it. Still, it hadn’t even occurred to him to try.

It had been a long day.

The magical alterations left the Wasabi looking like the world’s ugliest estate car, and Crowley gave it a disgusted sneer before he climbed in behind the wheel. Anathema and Madame Tracy had stretched their map out in the cramped backseat, and produced an ancient torch from somewhere. It looked as though it might, anachronistically, predate the invention of the light bulb.

Crowley’s head pounded as he focused what little concentration he could muster on magically coaxing every scrap of power he could manage from the Wasabi's 823cc engine, as he shifted into third gear, and they trundled down the M40 in not-so-hot pursuit.

He fumbled at the radio as he attempted, unsuccessfully, to overtake a Morris Minor driven by an old man in a derby cap. The speakers crackled and screeched out an upbeat and high-pitched song in Korean that Crowley could feel in his teeth.

“What the _blessed fuck_ is that?” He growled.

“Radio Pyongyang,” Anathema said, desperately trying to unfold the map without hitting Madame Tracy in the face. “It's all that will come in.”

-*-

“Where are you taking me?” Freddie asked the Bentley, once he realized that they'd left London behind. “You know Crowley is going to be livid about this, right? You're supposed to be doing the whole ‘JUST MARRIED,’ get-away car thing tomorrow. How do you think Crowley will feel if he has to leave his wedding in a cab?”

The music stopped.

The blessed silence left Freddie’s ears ringing, but the car didn't slow in its headlong flight from London with its captive audience.

“I'm sorry,” Freddie said into the silence. “Truly. But, this is bigger than you and me. Crowley is getting married tomorrow. You're not going to want to miss that. He loves you. You're _his car_. He'll be devastated if he wakes up in the morning and we're not there. It will ruin the whole day.”

The mood in the Bentley had shifted somehow. It was a subtle thing, but after the last few hours of speeding through traffic at terrifying speeds, under the oppressive aura of rage that the Bentley was putting out in waves, the sudden absence of all of that negative energy was immediately noticeable.

“I heard about what happened down in Hell,” Freddie continued, carefully. “If you want to talk about committed relationships… well, Crowley…there's a guy who really _is_ in love with his car.”

It seemed to be working. The Bentley slowed down to just over the posted speed limit.

“There now,” Freddie said, sitting up a little straighter and placing his fingertips gingerly on the wheel. “We're all reasonable… beings. I'm sure that we can work something out here. I said some things that I shouldn’t have, and you… took us on a terrifying little drive… but, there’s no reason that we can’t be friends.”

-*-

“They're turning off the M40, I think,” Anathema said.

“Where?” Crowley growled.

“Onto the A404 at Handy Cross. You might be able to intercept them if you-"

“Cut across through Maidenhead. Right. Hold on everybody.”

Crowley made an abrupt lane change to turn off, and the Wasabi rocked worryingly, but kept all of its wheels on the tarmac, and Crowley shifted back into third gear and cursed when an attempt to shift into fourth was met with grinding gears and an overtaxed engine as the gear stick socketed back into second. The Wasabi didn’t have a fourth gear. “Cheap, imported garbage,” he hissed, and put it back into third.

“Mr. Crowley?” Madame Tracy asked from the back seat. “I don't mean to sound pessimistic, but what exactly is your plan if we do manage to catch up to them?”

“I'm going to,” Crowley started in a growl, but what _would_ he do? The more exciting car chases he'd seen in films and on television ended with fiery crashes, or shooting out tyres with machine guns, or action sequences involving secret agents or Austrian bodybuilders jumping between vehicles at high speeds. None of that seemed as though it would end well for anyone involved—most importantly, the Bentley.

“I'll honk the horn,” Crowley finished, lamely, and magically coaxed a few more miles per hour from the Wasabi by dint of flattening the accelerator to the floor and threatening it with grievous mechanical harm.

-*-

After his conversation with Anathema and Tracy, Aziraphale was feeling just a tad nervous about the wedding. With everyone's insistence that he and Crowley shouldn't spend the night before the ceremony together, he was at something of a loss with what to do with himself.

He'd never been in the habit of sleeping, prior to the brief revocation of his angelic power and subsequent beginning of this new physical aspect of his relationship with Crowley, and absent of the former demon coiling himself around Aziraphale with long, bony limbs and drooling on him for several hours, he was unable to get his brain to switch off for the now customary period of slumber.

He'd spent the first six millennia of his existence on this planet occupying himself perfectly well during the dark hours of night, but now that he had gotten into the habit of sleep, he simply had no idea what to do with the hours stretching out from now until his pending nuptials—simultaneously a seeming eternity and too soon by half.

He'd fallen into that old standby of fretting with a cup of cocoa in one hand and a book in the other. Somehow the volume that he’d ended up with was Blake's _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_. The vast majority of it was the mad ramblings of a disturbed mind, but the poetry was artfully phrased, and after Adam's well-planned stag night, he'd never be able to think of certain passages quite the same way again.

The whole thing sent a frisson of _wanting _through his corporeal being, a physical need he'd never had to bother with before the chain of events that had led to his sudden possession of the complete complement of male anatomical features.

He abruptly decided to abandon his cocoa in favor of a bath and a glass of wine instead.

-*-

“What's happening now exactly?” Freddie asked tentatively. He’d thought that maybe his reasoning with the car meant that he’d be allowed control of the wheel once more, but any attempts at steering or applying the brake had been met with a sullen refusal to react in any way. “Are you taking me back to London, or…?”

The radio remained silent.

Freddie wasn’t about to complain. His situation had improved dramatically. The music had stopped its slow, psychological torture, and they were moving along at a reasonable speed. He should just shut up while he was ahead, before he put his foot in it, but the sullen silence emanating from the Bentley was a torture of its own.

It felt like the car was thinking, working through some complicated automotive emotions, and Freddie was a little worried about what kind of conclusions Crowley's mad, centenarian car might come to if left to it’s own devices.

“I mean, I get that communication isn't the easiest here, but I _can_ listen. I'm not half as self-centered as I pretend to be.” He fidgeted. “Sometimes it's just easier to pretend, you know… It’s easier to put on the mask and the persona—just fake the confidence, instead of feeling so… insignificant. Onstage, I felt like a giant, and offstage… offstage I'm just a queer kid from Zanzibar… I'd rather pretend to be Freddie Mercury than try to survive as Farrokh Balsara.”

Freddie went quiet for a moment, as a sudden need to just let the honesty come pouring out overtook him. In a way, sitting here in The Bentley, talking to the dash board, as the world blurred by around this little bubble of stillness, he felt like he was talking to himself. The fact that The Bentley’s responses came in the form of scraps and snippets of his own lyrics, solidified the feeling. But there was also a clear _presence _there with him. He couldn't explain it exactly, but while all his secrets felt as safe as if he were speaking them to the empty night, there was also someone there listening.

And, yeah, he'd started this ramble by saying that he could listen, and ended up talking about himself, so maybe he really _i__s_ as self-centered and conceited as he pretends to be. He tells the Bentley _that _too, and he feels a kind of warm sense of acceptance from that presence.

_Somebody To Love_, started playing, softly, and Freddie lounged back in his seat and did just listen for a while.

He didn't quite understand exactly what the Bentley _was. _Clearly it was more than just a normal car, but all joking about BJs and gear sticks aside, he had no idea what the car could possibly _want _from him, or from anyone else for that matter, but it was obvious enough that the Bentley was lonely.

“Is all of this because of the wedding?” Freddie asked, when the song ended. “Are you feeling jilted because Crowley is marrying Aziraphale?”

_Friends will be friends_ _  
When you're in need of love they give you care and attention._

Freddie puzzled that over for a moment. “So, not jilted exactly but… _less of a priority?_”

_How it hurts (yeah) deep inside (oh yeah)  
When your love has cut you down to size  
Life is tough on your own  
Now I'm waiting for something to fall from the skies  
I'm waiting for love_

Freddie scratched the back of his neck. “Not jealousy. Envy.” Freddie blew out a breath, full of empathetic commiseration. “I can dig that. You need someone who's just for you, to balance it out. But, that can't be me…” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he thought. “We need to find you some sexy convertible with her top off. Only…”

Freddie was cut off by a sound like an angry goose with acid indigestion.

-*-

“What do you call that?” Crowley demanded, turning to stare at Anathema in the back seat.

Anathema shrugged. “To be honest, I'm surprised that the horn works at all.”

Crowley laid on the horn again, and it let out an asthmatic quack. He flashed his lights at the Bentley, but the car neither slowed, nor showed any signs of having noticed him. It maintained a steady speed as the gap between the two cars steadily grew.

“We're not going to catch them,” Yeshua grumbled. He was still suffering from the transportation, and he'd been riding with his head pressed against the cool glass of the passenger window.

They did manage to close the distance between the two cars though, as the Bentley was met by a blockade of lorries, matching speed across all four lanes of the motorway.

Crowley brought the Wasabi level with the Bentley and Yeshua lowered his window, immediately chilling the inside of the car with a blast of cold air, and the deafening roar of wind resistance.

They could make Freddie out now, caught in brief glimpses by the light of the street lamps every twenty or thirty seconds, behind the wheel of the Bentley. He seemed to be unable to roll down his own window, and was pounding on the glass and yelling something.

“What's he doing?” Crowley demanded. “Freddie! Stop banging on that window! If you damage my car, you'll wish you were still dead! Pull over!”

“I don't think he's the one driving,” Yeshua shouted over the wind.

With nothing else to do, Crowley laid on the horn again.

Anathema pulled her jacket tight around her, while her teeth chattered, in the back seat. “A former demon and the son of God,” she muttered to Madame Tracy, “and what are we doing? Screaming out the window like lunatics and honking at them… at two in the morning. We're meant to be back at the park by nine. And it'll be an hour drive to Tadfield at this point. Doesn't Crowley realize that some of us need to sleep? This is ridiculous.”

Madame Tracy folded up the map and put an arm around Anathema. “Whatever else he is, he’s a man. You know how they get about these things. Best to just ride it out. We've found the car now. Our part is done. Try to catch a nap.” Tracy closed her eyes and tucked her head against Anathema's shoulder.

“A nap? We're in the middle of a car chase!”

“It isn't much of a car chase. What are they going to do? Crowley would never risk his Bentley by doing anything extreme. My guess is, we'll be driving around after them half the night. Might as well catch some shut-eye while we can.”

Madame Tracy seemed not at all bothered by the turn of events that the night had taken. Normally, her tendency to take anything,_ and everything,_ in stride was one of the things that Anathema liked best about her, but at some point enough was enough.

“I'm giving you an hour, Crowley,” she shouted over the wind. “After that, we're leaving you on the side of the road, and Tracy and I are going home.”

“I'm getting married tomorrow. You can't just kick me out in the middle of nowhere.”

“We aren't in the middle of nowhere. You can find public transportation. But, I'd suggest you make it home before then instead. You're getting married tomorrow. The car thing isn't that important. Anyway, isn't God supposed to be showing up to the wedding? If Freddie is meant to be going back to Heaven, you might as well let Her sort it out.”

“I'm not _abandoning my car_,” Crowley growled, but before he could do any ranting about the responsibility of automobile ownership, the Bentley found a window through the lorry blockade and slipped through just before it closed again, stopping Crowley from following. He cursed Freddie, all lorry drivers everywhere, and the Wasabi in turn, and then laid on the horn again.

-*-

“Crowley seems pretty angry,” Freddie said, as the Wasabi disappeared from sight. “If it's revenge that you wanted, you have it. He's going to blame all of this on me.”

_How long can you stand the heat?_

“Very funny, but I doubt you'll be getting out of this free and clear. You're the one in control. He's going to be angry with you too, or do you plan on keeping me trapped in here forever, while Crowley chases after you?”

_I'm a racing car passing by  
Like Lady Godiva  
I'm gonna go gogo  
There's no stopping me_

“What about the wedding?”

_The show must go on, yeah  
The show must go on  
I'll face it with a grin  
I'm never giving in  
On with the show_

“So, we're getting back before morning then?” Freddie let out a sigh of relief and slumped into the seat. He couldn't help a yawn. The last few hours had been draining, and he was exhausted. “Are we going back to London now? Because, if you're not planning to bring me to a bed anytime soon, I think I'll just climb in the backseat and get some sleep.”

The stereo slipped from half a line of _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_ to a scrap of _Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy _in an odd jag: _Take the backseat, Dining at the Ritz_.

Freddie frowned. “You're taking me back to The Ritz? Why?”

He was expecting something about _driving back in style _on a h_ot-seat of love, _but instead it was:_Find me somebody to love_, a brief skip, and then,_The machine of a dream, such a clean machine  
With the pistons a pumpin', and the hubcaps all gleam._

Freddie rubbed his hand over his eyes. “What does that mean?”

The Bentley just repeated _Find me somebody to love._

_“_Right,” Freddie grumbled_._ “If you have your sights set on Wilde, I think that you have some competition.”

_Get a grip on my boy racer roll bar.  
Such a thrill when your radials squeal._

“Obviously,” Freddie sneered, rolling his eyes.

Regardless, the Bentley seemed to be in a better mood, and Freddie listened to half a dozen of his more cheerful songs, catching occasional glimpses of the Wasabi in the mirrors, as they cruised back toward London at a more reasonable speed.

At some point he must have fallen asleep, because one moment he was looking out the window at the city lights, while _Killer Queen_ played quietly, and the next moment they were crashing through a ticket barrier into a parking garage.

-*-

The Bentley wasn't necessarily looking for a cherry-red convertible with its top off. It would have been quite pleased with a Jaguar E-type. It would have been happy with a Bughatti Veyron. Even the Lamborghini Huracan had a certain dangerous charm. What the Bentley found in the space it had left it, on the level reserved for the Ritz's valet parking, was a battered, silver Citroen C3 Pluriel. It was about as sexy as a Volkswagen Beetle, without the sense of flower-power nostalgia.

It did have its top off though.

And, beauty went deeper than body panels;…under the hood were four cylinders that could manage a _whopping_ 74 brake horsepower...

The Bentley tried not to be too disappointed.

At least it had a manual transmission. The Bentley would have never been able to be seen fraternizing with an automatic.

Still, Freddie had a point. The Bentley should be shifting its focus to another car. Humans were far too emotionally unstable to be bothering with. And it wasn't as though there were any other options. Adam's Citroen was the only other infernally-influenced automobile in England, and probably the world. It might not be old enough to have gained the same level of self-awareness that the Bentley had, but there had to be at least a spark of sentience there. The Bentley could have gone cruising around to Ferrari dealerships looking for a hot new ride, but it would have been like proposing marriage to a statue in the park-- as lovely as they might be on the outside, on the inside they were as lifeless as cold stone.

So, better to just make the best of it. Here they were: a black swan and an ugly, grey goose with identity issues, sharing the same lonely pond. Or, alternatively, a vintage Bentley in mint condition (save a few scuffs and minor dents from driving through the ticket barrier, but Crowley would take care of those) and a convertible whose designers thought it should double as a pickup truck.

What kind of pickup line did you use on a pickup truck?

The Bentley figured that you could never go wrong with the classics.

_I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things._ _  
We can do the tango just for two_ _._

-*-

The car had stopped.

Actually stopped.

They were parked.

Freddie didn't have a whole lot of hope as _Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy _started playing, and he reached for the door handle, but he had to try.

He practically tumbled right onto his face on the cement floor of the parking garage when the door popped easily open, and he was all but ejected from the Bentley. He caught himself in time, on his knees and fingertips, and scrambled quickly away from the demonic car.

Nothing happened.

The Bentley just sat there, engine idling, driver's door ajar, playing a silly, romantic song that he'd written in 1976. The music, echoing off the walls of the deserted garage, was eerie in the absence of another living soul to hear it.

The whole thing seemed very anticlimactic.

Freddie stretched his legs and walked around, keeping a safe distance from the Bentley, as he circled the car warily and tried to figure out where they were and what was going on.

There were signs at one end of the garage, directing out to the street, and Freddie confirmed that they were back in Central London. Since he had fallen asleep, he wasn't sure if Crowley and the others were still following in the Wasabi, and he considered making his way out to the street to try to get a cab back to Mayfair, but he glanced over his shoulder when the Bentley segued into _I'm in Love With My Car, _and took the whole scene in again.

The Bentley had parked nose-to-nose with a silver convertible—not in one of the spaces, but rather in the garage's traffic lane. It wasn't quite perfectly parallel, but parked at a slight cant, and there was something about the position that sparked an image of a teenager glancing coquettishly over one shoulder to see if the object of their affection was appropriately appreciating their backside.

Freddie took a closer look at the convertible. It wasn't a particularly noteworthy car. It looked to be an older model, and not especially well-cared for. It wasn't so old as to be considered a classic, and it didn't have the right kind of lines or timeless style to merit preservation by a collector, in any case. It looked like the sort of car you might get from a rental agency if you wanted something fun on vacation, or maybe the kind of car a kid would think was cool when making their first foray into automobile ownership. Something about it seemed oddly familiar though.

The Bentley switched over to _Somebody to Love_, and finally the situation, at least, became clear.

The Bentley had taken his advice and redirected its romantic intentions to something more in its own lane. It had gone cruising for a topless convertible. Freddie wasn't quite sure why the Bentley had chosen this particular model, but anything was an improvement over it’s crazy, stalker, fascination with him. He smiled. It was really kind of sweet.

Freddie was just starting to feel a little sad for the Bentley, since it wasn't likely to get any kind of response from the trashy little convertible in question, when the lights on the other car flicked on, and the engine revved to life.

Freddie looked around the garage, but he still didn't see any other human beings. Then, the convertible's stereo started playing.

He didn't recognize the song, something after his time, but the lyrics made the meaning clear enough, and he started to feel uneasy.

_Get you where you wanna go, if you know what I mean_ _  
Got a ride that's smoother than a limousine  
Can you handle the curves, can you run all the lights  
If you can, baby boy, then we can go all night_

Freddie walked slowly backwards, away from the cars. He wasn't sure if he had lost his mind somewhere around the thirtieth repetition of _Headlong_; maybe he was still riding around in the back of the Bentley gibbering to himself. Or, _hell_, what did he know? Maybe all cars were secretly sentient. Whatever the reason, he had suddenly become very worried that he was about to see a couple of cars make the beast with two backs. _Two roofs?_ No, that didn't work with a convertible… Either way, it was the wrong kind of autoeroticism. He didn't know how, or why, or what either of them could possibly get from the experience, but he didn't think it was something that he needed to see.

And yet, like a train wreck, he was unable to look away.

_I got class like a '57 Cadillac_ _  
And overdrive with a whole lot of boom in the back  
You look like you can handle what's under my hood  
You keep saying that you will, boy, I wish you would_

How would it even work? The Bentley was huge. It had to weigh tons. It was going to crush the poor little convertible, and it looked like it had been abused enough already.

Suddenly there was the echoing rumble of another engine inside the parking structure, and the Wasabi wheezed it’s way up the ramp and came to a squealing stop with its headlamps shining right at Freddie. He felt like a voyeur, caught in the act, but that was ridiculous. He was just standing here watching two cars play music at each other.

Crowley was in a fury as he stalked out of the Wasabi. “What the bloody Hell is going on?”

Yeshua was only a moment behind him, looking tired and concerned. “Are you okay, Freddie?”

Freddie gave a half-manic laugh and brushed his hand through his hair. “Aces, now that you're here, darling. Crowley's lovely automobile just decided to take me on the ride of my life, and I _definitely _have no interest in an encore.”

His light-hearted tone must not have been very convincing, because Yeshua frowned and put a hand on his shoulder, looking even more worried—possibly for Freddie’s mental stability.

_Not entirely unwarranted._

“I'm fine, really,” Freddie said, and he thought that he managed to sound a little more confident that time. “Just a bit of excitement. Nothing that a strict future as a pedestrian won't cure. Thank you for gallantly coming to my rescue.”

“There was less gallantry and more vomiting involved than you might imagine,” Yeshua admitted, “but as long as you're safe, it's fine. I'm not sure that Gabriel would have let me live it down if anything had happened to you on my watch."

Crowley was carefully inspecting the Bentley, cursing about, and then miracling away, the damage to the front bumper, as Anathema and Madame Tracy climbed out of the Wasabi, and the Bentley started playing _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_.

“Everything alright?” Tracy asked.

Before Freddie or Yeshua could answer, Anathema said, “It's fine. Crowley has his precious car back. Now I just have to somehow get us home without falling asleep behind the wheel, so we can sleep for a few hours before driving back again and dealing with whatever nonsense is bound to happen at the wedding.”

Crowley circled back around to the rear of the Bentley and fixed a glare at Freddie. “Why did you come back here?” he demanded. “What do you want with Adam's Citroen? Planning to run off with that next?”

“That's Adam's car?_” _Freddie let out an “_Ohhhhh_,” of sudden understanding. “That makes a lot more sense.”

“What does?”

“Uh, well… your Bentley is doing a bit of…_romancing_.”

“_Roman-” _Crowley cut off halfway through the word, frowning. “What do you mean, _romancing?”_

_Crazy Little Thing Called Love _ended, and the Citroen responded with a Simon and Garfunkel song that Freddie recognized.

_My daddy was the family bassman  
My mamma was an engineer  
And I was born one dark gray morn  
With music coming in my ears  
In my ears_

_They call me Baby Driver  
And once upon a pair of wheels  
I hit the road and I'm gone  
What's my number  
I wonder how your engines feel_

“I suggested that it should set its sights on another car, instead of me. It took the advice to heart, so here we are.” After a beat, he added, “I think the courting is going well.”

Crowley spun and glared at the Bentley. “A fucking C3 Pluriel?” The disgust was clear in his voice.

“Better it than me,” Freddie muttered.

“What has gotten into you?” Crowley asked the car. “I don't know if it's since Adam reversed the damage from the apocalypse, or that little jaunt into Hell, but all of this _acting out_ has to stop. Adam's Citroen? Don't you have any taste?”

The Citroen's engine gave a threatening rumble, over the sounds of _Baby Driver_, but Crowley just turned his glower on it and pointed a finger at it. “Don't think that I won't be having a conversation with Adam about _you_ either.”

“Oh, leave them alone, Crowley, you big bully,” Madame Tracy cut in. “It's really rather sweet.”

Sweet maybe wasn't the word Freddie would use. He still found the idea a bit disturbing when you got down to the mechanics, but he wasn't one to judge. “Love is love,” he said.

“Love?” Crowley sputtered, but the idea brought him up short.

“I, for one,” Anathema said, “don't care if its love, lust, or mechanical dysfunction. If I’m not sleeping in bed with my husband in the next hour, I’m not going to the wedding tomorrow. It's 3 am. Come on Tracy. The boys can handle it from here.”

That's when Dick Turpin rolled forward toward the Bentley, tentatively, of it’s own volition, and a robotic, feminine voice, with a thick Asian accent, chimed out, “Black as darkest night. Gleaming bright, under cold stars. I thrill with the chase.”

They all stood in complete, gobsmacked silence for a moment, staring at the Wasabi, and then Crowley's expression turned thunderous.

“No,” he said, firmly, pointing at the Wasabi like it was a puppy that had just piddled on the carpet. “No. No. _No!” _He snapped his fingers at the car, and it morphed and shortened back into its usual, sub-compact, two-seater form. “No,” Crowley said again, and then he turned to Anathema. “Get that thing out of here, and get some sleep, and you had damned well better be at my wedding tomorrow.”

Anathema rolled her eyes. “We'll be there. Don't worry.” She let out a jaw-cracking yawn. “Maybe not on time…”

“Go.”

Anathema and Madame Tracy went, and Crowley, Yeshua, and Freddie were left with the two cars, continuing to play increasingly suggestive songs at one another.

“What do we do now?” Yeshua asked.

“We drive back to Mayfair, get some sleep, and pretend none of this ever happened.”

“You can't just break them up,” Yeshua protested. “They're having a moment.”

“A moment. _A moment?” _Crowley stalked toward the open driver’s side door of the Bentley. “I had this black Andalusian stallion in the 15th century: sleek, beautiful, magnificent, the fastest thing around on four legs. The only problem was that anytime there was an in-season mare within sniffing distance, he became completely unmanageable. It didn't matter if it was the pride of the king's stables, some farmer's plow horse, or a broken down nag. He wasn't going anywhere until he'd had his fun. Obviously, the only solution was to have him gelded. I don't know how to castrate a car, but you'd better fall in line, or I'm trading you in for a _Rolls Royce Phantom_.” He finished in a low growl, and the Bentley which had been starting in with another round of _Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy_, abruptly fell silent.

“He's as bad as my dad,” Yeshua said to Freddie.

“Get in,” Crowley called.

“Actually, I think I'm going to walk,” Freddie said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder toward the garage's exit.

“_I said. _Get. In**_._**” Crowley growled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to lie, this chapter was a pain to write. I ended up combing through pages and pages of song lyrics, and I didn't think I'd ever find time to finish it, but here we are. It's a little weird, and I don't even know what's happening in this story anymore, but we're ready for a wedding.
> 
> The first song that the Citroen plays is "Shut up and Drive," by Rihanna. I think that everything else is identified in the text, and is mostly Queen.


	18. Let's Get Married

When they had finally made it back to the flat the night before, Crowley had headed straight for the bedroom, flopped down onto the bed, and fallen unconscious in seconds. He'd left Yeshua and Freddie to make their own sleeping arrangements.

Still, he'd been a little surprised to find them both sprawled together on the couch in a tangle of limbs, under a single blanket. He would have expected Yeshua to have miracled up a bed of some kind.

Three of the four cats had managed to find space on the couch as well. The white cat, whose name still remained a mystery to Crowley, padded silently out of the kitchen and stood, staring up at him with blue eyes.

“Good morning, angel eyes” he said, over the noise of Yeshua's snoring. “I think it's going to be a beautiful day for a wedding.” He inclined his head toward the couch. “Mind waking them up for me?”

Crowley sent a very tentative psychic command to the cat. He was generally good with small mammals. He'd once gotten a whole swarm of rats to infest the BT Tower, but cats could be tricky. They had their own agendas and weren't as susceptible to his magic. Still, he sent the suggestion that Yeshua's face looked like a comfortable place for a nap, and went into the kitchen to make some coffee.

He was rewarded a moment later with a guttural groan from the son of God.

“Wa's goin' on?” Freddie's voice said sleepily, and then, more awake, “gah, watch where you’re putting your knee.”

“The CATS, Freddie! Why do there have to be so many cats?”

Crowley smirked to himself. Old habits died hard, and he loved the smell of a little low-level discord in the morning.

-*-

Adam's alarm went off and started playing They Might Be Giants’ _I Am a Paleontologist _from the other side of the room_. _Adam groaned and snuggled closer to Oscar.

“Your mobile machine is singing at us,” Oscar observed.

“It's time to get ready for the wedding,” Adam grumbled back. “We need to pick up Aziraphale by 8:30.”

“What time is it now?”

“Assuming that's the first time that my alarm has gone off, 7:00.”

“That's all right then,” Oscar said, sliding a hand down Adam's ribs and over his hip.

Adam groaned. “We need to shower, and get dressed, and probably eat something, and be out of here in less than an hour.”

“I can wash and dress quite quickly, I assure you.”

They were twenty minutes late, and Aziraphale was less than pleased.

“We should be there by now,” he grumbled, as he got into the back of the town car that was the Citroen's current incarnation. “What on Earth kept you? I thought the whole point of staying in the city was to avoid being late.”

“Er,” Adam said.

Oscar coughed, and smirked at him, no help at all.

“We got a bit… caught up… at the hotel,” Adam mumbled. “There was some trouble when the valet went to bring the car around. The battery was dead.The ignition is a little finicky, and they must have pulled the key out without turning it all the way off, last night. It was taking them too long to handle it, so we had to walk to the garage, and I gave it a little magical jump-start.”

Aziraphale huffed.

“Don't fret,” Oscar said. “There's still plenty of time before the ceremony, and it isn't as if they can start without you.”

“If yesterday was anything to go by at all, the whole thing will be a shambles when we get to the park, and that horrible decorator we hired will have a thousand inane questions for me.”

“All the more reason to be a little late then,” Adam said. “Make them figure it out on their own. You'll still be married by the end of it, whatever the bouquets look like, or if the band plays the wrong song, or the chairs are the wrong color.”

“That's easy for _you_ to say,” Aziraphale grumbled. “I'll have you know that I've gone to a lot of effort planning this wedding.”

“Save your efforts for the honeymoon,” Adam advised. “Today is meant to be about you and Crowley, and how stupid you are for each other. The rest of it doesn't matter.”

“It matters to _me_.”

“Well sure,” Adam acceded quickly, “but that's what you have me, and Tracy, and your horrible decorator for. Delegate. Just leave us to sort out anything that doesn't involve you walking down that aisle and saying, ‘I do.’”

“Ah, yes. The punctuality with which you've performed your first assigned task gives me great faith in your abilities.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “Are you going to be like this all day?” he asked. “I realize that you're only covering your nerves by fixating on things you can control, but I'm not sure I can handle a groomzilla with divine, heavenly power.”

“But you're my best man. If I decide to destroy Tokyo, I fully intend to _delegate_ the reconstruction to you. After all, you did such a good job with it the last time—when _somebody _decided to wreak havoc on the Japanese.”

“If you mean releasing the kraken on a bunch of whalers,” Adam said. “I may not have been…_particularly thorough _with that task either.”

“Oh?”

“They were all found to have miraculously survived their respective shipwrecks,” Adam was quick to assure. “But, it could be that…_ the experience_, even though they had no memory of the kraken, left them all with severe aquaphobia. They can probably still manage the courage for a shower, but none of them will be hunting any whales ever again, and their fleet is still at the bottom of the ocean, sleeping with the fishes.”

“Is that why you were mumbling about whales last night?” Oscar asked.

Adam flushed. “I said something about whales?”

“Quite apart from the crude commands regarding blow holes, I think you said something about not needing whale oil for your harpoon when you're the Antichrist.”

“I talk a lot of nonsense,” Adam said, eyes fixed firmly on the road, as he pulled the Citroen out into traffic. “You should probably ignore everything that comes out of my mouth.”

“He does have a tendency to rant when he gets into a strop about something,” Aziraphale agreed.

“Look who's talking,” Adam grumbled. “Talk about pot opining on the pigmentation of the kettle.”

“It's my wedding day. I don't think it's too much to ask that everything goes smoothly.”

Adam snorted. “Have you ever talked to anyone about their wedding?”

“I… What do you mean?”

“Oscar, you've been married. How was it? Did everything go smoothly? Get hitched without a hitch?”

Oscar laughed. “We had a few hiccups. Nothing too disastrous, but it wasn't as grand an affair as this. I believe the worst of it was some temporarily mislaid rings, and a bit of damage to the wedding cake from one of Constance's young and overeager relatives.”

“The cake?” Aziraphale sounded absolutely scandalized.

“Oh, that's nothing,” Adam said. “The photographer my parents hired never showed up for theirs. Got the dates mixed up. The only pictures they have from the day are a few overexposed Polaroids.”

“That's awful.”

Adam shrugged. “Mum says that the more things go wrong on your wedding day, the happier your marriage will be, and it seems to have worked for them.”

“So, I should hope that everything falls apart?”

“Dad says that Murphy's Law comes with compounded interest for weddings, holidays, and job interviews. At some point today, something isn't going to go exactly the way you planned. Given the parties involved, probably a lot of somethings. You can choose to get upset over it, or you can roll with the punches and let me, Yeshua, Madame Tracy, and Anathema worry about the damage control.” Adam paused. “Okay, let's be honest… mostly me and Anathema.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Fine. But, if anything happens to the cake, I'm going to… be very upset.”

“Understood.” Adam laughed. “The cake will be my top priority.”

“And the rings,” Aziraphale added.

“I have the rings.”

“And the photographer.”

“I'll call to confirm, as soon as we get there.”

“And Crowley.”

“What about Crowley?”

“Make sure he's there.”

“That's Yeshua's job.”

“Just in case.”

“Crowley will be my second priority,” Adam agreed, “after the cake.”

-*-

Crowley made it to Battersea Park before Aziraphale, parked the Bentley, and walked into organized chaos.

The decorating team, a squadron of young people in khaki trousers, polo shirts, and matching company jackets, had invaded the park, armed with flowers painstakingly crafted by Christ himself. A couple of them rushed past Crowley carrying the runner for the aisle. Another pair had been deployed to wipe the morning dew from the chairs. The band were tuning their instruments, readying to play the march.The head decorator stood on the edge of the bandstand like a general, clipboard in one hand, directing her troops.

Given what they were going up against, Crowley wondered if they shouldn't be hauling in the heavy artillery.

Yeshua put his phone away and turned to him. “They're running a bit behind, but Aziraphale will be here soon. Let's get you into your tent so he doesn't see you. I can help you groom your wings.”

“What do you mean, _so he doesn't see me_? Aziraphale and I will groom each other. You're not touching my wings.”

“You're not allowed to see each other before the ceremony. I can take care of it. Just tell me what to do.”

Crowley had been feeling a serene sort of anticipation all morning, but as Yeshua whisked him off to his tent and started pinning on his boutonniere, it was replaced by a rising panic.

-*-

Adam parked next to the Bentley, and pulled the keys out of the ignition, but the Citroen’s engine continued to idle. He tried again, but still he couldn't make it turn off.

Aziraphale and Oscar were already out of the car, and Oscar dipped his head back inside to ask, “Is something the matter?”

Adam frowned at the steering wheel. “I guess we know why the battery was dead. The ignition is all fucked up.”

He twirled a finger at it, and still the Citroen continued to run. Adam's frown deepened.

“Is now really the time to worry over it?” Aziraphale asked.

“I guess not,” Adam said, but he was scowling as he got out of the car.

He wasn't more than a few steps away, when the radio started playing.

They call me Baby Driver  
And once upon a pair of wheels  
I hit the road and I'm gone  
What's my number  
I wonder how your engines feel  
Ba bababa  
Scoot down the road  
What's my number  
I wonder how your engines feel

Adam tried directing another dose of infernal power at it, but still it didn't respond. Grumbling, he started walking away again, but then the Bentley started.

She's a Killer Queen  
Gunpowder, gelatine  
Dynamite with a laser beam  
Guaranteed to blow your mind

“What the-“ Adam stopped again, and just stared at the two cars, wondering what manner of fuckery he had to deal with now.

“Are you coming?” Aziraphale demanded.

“But, the Bentley…”

“The Bentley is the very last thing that I care about right now. The guests will be arriving soon, and I'm not even dressed yet.”

“But, don't you think it's a bit odd that they're both,” Adam waved a hand at the two cars to elucidate.

Aziraphale huffed and strode purposefully off in the direction of the bandstand and the group of tents.

Oscar glanced between Aziraphale’s retreating back and Adam, and gave him a questioning look.

“Yeah, all right,” Adam said, “one thing at a time. I’ll deal with this later. Let’s get those two idiots married first, and then I’ll worry about playing mechanic.”

“You wouldn’t want to spoil your suit, in any case,” Oscar agreed, extending his arm for Adam to take it.

-*-

Crowley twitched.

He squirmed.

He cursed.

He jerked his wing away from Yeshua’s hands, and whirled around to glare at him. “Did you just pull out one of my fucking feathers?”

“It was broken,” Yeshua said, holding up the dark feather, bent nearly in half, for Crowley to see.

Crowley maintained his accusing glare anyway and kept his wings tucked behind himself, well away from Yeshua’s reach. “Get Aziraphale.”

“Stop being such a baby,” Yeshua said. “I’m almost finished.”

He reached for one of his wings again, and Crowley took a step back. “Get Aziraphale.”

“Just come here.”

“Don’t touch me,” Crowley growled.

“You can’t see him before the wedding.”

Crowley ruffled his feathers in agitation, produced a flask from the inside pocket of his jacket, and flopped into a chair.

This was ridiculous. How was he expected to be able to face all of this, without Aziraphale there to nag him about his attitude, or fuss over his suit? Was he meant to just let a ham-fisted carpenter mangle his wings and keep him sequestered in this damned tent like some kind of virgin princess? Would he be expected to just stand up there, in front of all those people, waiting for Aziraphale, and feeling like a moron, without being able to at least _talk_ to him first?

He wanted his angel, _damn it_.

He took a slug from the flask and silently seethed at Yeshua.

-*-

Lucifer pulled out his pocket watch for what seemed like the hundredth time and checked it.

“I don't think there's such a thing as fashionably late to a wedding!” he called up the stairs.

“Cool your hooves,” Azazel called back. “I'm coming.”

Lucifer's breath caught as Azazel descended the steps like the ugly-duckling girl from a 90s teen movie, who takes off her glasses and gets a makeover just in time to take the star quarterback to prom. Or, given it was Azazel, maybe more like Carrie White before the pig's blood and mass murder. In any case, Lucifer thought she looked sexy as hell in her silver evening gown-- split to the hip, plunging neckline, and matching stilettos with criss-crossed laces up her calf. Her wings were out, and she'd given them a sprinkling of stardust. It glittered gold and silver among the dark feathers. Her horns were buffed to a glossy shine, curling out from that lovely mane of silver curls.

“You..” Lucifer cleared his throat. “You didn't tell me that you were going female.”

“I don't think I could pull off this dress otherwise,” Azazel said.

“Somehow I think you'd manage it,” Lucifer said, looking her up and down greedily.

“I probably could, but do you have any idea how much work goes into all of that? Those humans, you really have to admire their ingenuity sometimes—what they manage the think up to compensate for their shortcomings.”

Lucifer hummed in agreement, too busy ogling to pay much attention.

“Well, we'd best get going, if you don't want to be late.”

“I've changed my mind.”

Azazel licked her lips, but said, “There will be time for _that_ after.”


	19. Who Even Invited These People?

“It looks like they're at it again,” Anathema said, as she parked Dick Turpin in the open spot on the opposite side of the Bentley from Adam's Citroen, and the music from the courting cars was loud enough that she had to raise her voice over it.

“I guess weddings put everyone in the mood for a little romance,” Tracy said.

Anathema let out a jaw-creaking yawn. “I could have done with a bit less romance last night, and a bit more sleep instead. Certainly fewer abductions.”

“I'm sure they'll have tea and coffee set up for us.” Tracy gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Let's get you a little fortification.”

As they made their way toward the tents, Dick Turpin's electronic voice said, “Roaring your engine, burning heart of a great beast. I combust for you.”

Anathema just kept walking.

Tracy did find tea in Aziraphale's tent, along with her bouquet, and a frantically fretful angel.

Crowley magicked up a cup of coffee for Anathema, dosed it with a generous pour from his flask, and allowed her to straighten a few of his bent feathers.

Their duties to the grooms temporarily dispatched, they left them in the hands of the best men and rejoined near the bandstand, ready to direct guests to their seats, and head off any trouble of the Armageddon variety.

They didn't have to wait long, but thankfully it was the Them that arrived first— all three of them in matching pinstripe suits, Pepper's tailored to her figure and accompanied by a pair of black pumps. They chatted for a bit, and found seats somewhere in the middle.

Newton and Shadwell arrived next with the children in tow. Shadwell hadn't foregone his trademark dirty mackintosh, despite the formal occasion, and Madame Tracy had to chivvy him out of it, while he grumbled about it being October, and cupped a cigarette out of the wind.

Anathema didn't really think that the brown suede suit he was wearing beneath the coat was much of an improvement, but she had her own problems to worry about. Newton had on his usual happy but exhausted expression, as he tried to wrangle the children on his own. They ran up and down the aisle, full of boundless energy, while poor Newt chased after them, fruitlessly begging them to behave. Anathema did her best to try to pretend that she had never met any of these people before in her life. The illusion was spoiled as Agnes and William both slammed into her hips, one on each side, and started babbling about how Grampy Shadwell had almost gotten them kicked off of the bus, and how daddy had taken his pin away.

-*-

Warlock Dowling wasn't entirely sure why he had been so quick to RSVP his acceptance of his invitation to the wedding.

He had fond memories of his nanny and the gardener, to be sure, but he was busy with his classes, at Harvard, and in order to attend he'd had to spend the whole night on an airplane. It was just an awful lot of trouble to go to for the wedding of two people that he hadn't seen or heard from in thirteen years. But, he couldn't ignore the feeling of joy that he'd gotten when he'd received their invitation.

Of course, he'd had no idea who Anthony J. Crowley and Aziraphale were when he'd opened the envelope and pulled out his invitation to a wedding in London. He kept in touch with a few old friends in England, via Facebook, but he hadn't been back since his father's job had returned them to The States, ten years ago. The letter attached to the invitation had cleared up a few things, but had by no means explained everything.

** _Warlock,_ **

** _We hope you are doing well, and apologize for our sudden and unexplained departure after your 11th birthday. Events beyond our control required our presence elsewhere. We do hope that you'll be able to attend our wedding, as we would very much like to see what an undoubtedly fine young man you've grown into._ **

** _All our love,_ **

** _Brother Francis_ **

All of this was written in a neat copper plate-- the signature embellished with little swoops and curls. Beneath it, scratched out in a meandering scrawl, was:

** _& Nanny Ashtoreth_ **

** _p.s. We’ve changed a lot. Won't be exactly like you remember. I'm sure I raised you better than to <strike>be a little twat </strike> make a fuss about it._ **

He remembered both of them fondly, and with no small amount of bemusement, and he'd formed many theories about them over the years. He was half convinced that Nanny Ashtoreth had been some kind of spy, or a member of a strange cult. He hadn't thought twice about her odd behavior, as a child, but looking back as an adult, he realized that he hadn't received an exactly normal upbringing. Brother Francis was as much of a mystery—like some cross between the wizard Radagast and an old county parson, but with the attitude of a Greek hedonist.

So, it had been mostly curiosity driving him back to London-- a need to see them again, but this time through a filter of age and experience, to try to put his strange childhood into some kind of perspective.

He wasn't at all sure what to expect when he arrived by cab at Battersea Park and followed the signs to the wedding location.

A pair of women in black dresses were handing out programs and directing seating. A little over half of the chairs were filled, and the younger woman asked, “Are you here for Crowley or Aziraphale?”

“Both, I guess,” Warlock answered. The bride was my nanny, growing up, and the groom was our gardener.”

The younger woman gave him a puzzled look as she handed him his program, but the older woman said, “Oh, you must be Warwick.”

“Warlock,” Warlock corrected in a resigned tone. He'd grown quite accustomed to teachers, baristas, telemarketers, and random strangers making a hash of his name by now.

An old man in the back row, wearing a dirty coat and smoking a cigarette, spun around to give him a squinty-eyed, suspicious look. “Whas tha ya say?”

“Er, Warlock Dowling.”

“Leave him be, Shadwell,” the older woman said. “And, I thought I told you to take that filthy mackintosh off. You're at a wedding. I don't see why you couldn't have worn that nice wool coat I bought you for Christmas last year.”

“Mind yer own business, wumman. I's culder than a witches teet ou’ here.”

The older woman sighed, her fond look of exasperation morphing into a kind smile as she turned back to Warlock. “You sit wherever you like, dear.”

Warlock took his program and, distancing himself from the strange old man, chose a seat on the opposite side of the aisle, near the only other guests who seemed to be close to his own age.

-*-

“Shadwell does have a point,” Anathema said, looking despairingly up at the overcast sky. It looked to be threatening rain. “I wouldn't mind a coat of my own. I don't think Crowley even bothered to consider for an instant how cold an outdoor wedding at the end of October would be for us mere mortals, when he chose these dresses.”

The dresses were shoulder-less, black, A-lines, with a floor-length, gauzy, tulle skirt, and as good as she might look in it, Anathema was freezing.

“I wouldn't mind a shawl, but I have my thermals on underneath.” Tracy hiked her skirt enough to show Anathema her ankle-length thermal underwear.

“I don't know why I didn't think of that,” Anathema said in wonder. “I'm frozen down to the bone.” As she said it, she let out an involuntary shiver.

Even as she did, the clouds cleared, and the sun seemed to shine a bit brighter. The air was suddenly warm, and there was a flash of white light before them as two women materialized out of nowhere.

“I hope that's better,” the older one said. “Crowley never has been very considerate of others, but I would have expected better from Aziraphale.”

She smiled at Anathema. She had kind, but careworn, features. Her white hair was cut short. Her suit was impossibly white, the jacket buttoned to show just a sliver of the pale pink camisole She wore beneath.

The woman on her arm was younger, Middle Eastern, with warm brown skin, and glossy, thick, black hair that fell in waves down her back. She wore a richly coloured, blue dress, belted at the waist with a sash of white silk. Where the older woman wore no jewelry, the younger had heavy, gold earrings and bangles, and a small ring in her right nostril.

Something deep inside of Anathema seemed to unravel at the sight of the two women. “Are you?” she asked in an awed voice, but that's all that she could manage to get out.

The older woman smiled her kind smile. “I think you know our son, Yeshua.”

Anathema silently held out a program to God, while Tracy gave one to The Virgin Mary.

“Och,” Shadwell grunted in Scottish. “Warlocks and lesbeen witches. Where's tha' blasted private wi my pin.”

“You're retired,” Madame Tracy told him, firmly, from the side of her mouth-- not daring to look away from the Creator and the Mother, while she maintained a smile to hide her embarrassment.

-*-

Crowley was sprawled out in his chair, still sulking, and watching Yeshua in silent recrimination, as he sipped at his bottomless flask. They had twenty minutes until the ceremony, and Crowley would need to sober up soon, but not yet.

“My Dad is here,” Yeshua said, from his post at the tent flap.

Crowley stiffened, a sudden feeling of dread constricting his chest. “That's it,” he hissed out in a numb whisper. “The beginning of The End. Who thought this would be a good idea, anyway?” He took another slug from the flask.

“Oh, fuck!”

Crowley sat straight up and looked at Yeshua with wide, terrified eyes. “What is it?”

“He's brought _my mother_.”

Yeshua shot a quick glance at Crowley and then focused all of his attention back outside again.

“What's going on?”

Yeshua looked at him again quickly. “Just… just STAY HERE. I'll be right back.”

And then, Crowley was alone in the tent.

He rose slowly to his feet.

He gave his wings a shake to ruffle his feathers, so they would lay flat.

He walked over to the mirror—fluffed his hair a bit in the front, and gave the red tartan bowtie he was wearing a disparaging glare.

Then, Crowley made a break for it, slipping silently out of the tent flap, and only sparing the gathered guests a momentary glance, as he made a beeline for Aziraphale’s tent. He stuck his head in for only a second, long enough to catch a glimpse of Adam sitting in a chair, tapping at his phone, and Aziraphale, with his back to the door, fussing with the lapels of his jacket in the mirror. He saw Aziraphale’s eyes widen in the reflection, and then Crowley quickly pulled back from the flap, and spun away from the opening, breathing heavily with his back to the side of the tent.

Aziraphale was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

-*-

The earth shook and rumbled.

Anathema and Tracy only had time to take a few steps back as a dark chasm opened directly before them. Steam vented up from the vast hole in the earth, in a wash of heat, and the smell of rotten eggs. The sound of displaced air, and the flapping of wings, heralded their arrival, as Lucifer and Azazel rose out of the pit in a mass of black feathers and well-tailored formal attire.

They landed lightly on the ground in front of Anathema and Madame Tracy. Lucifer made a hand-gesture behind them, and the chasm closed, leaving no evidence that it had ever been there at all.

“Hey, Anathema,” Azazel said, her voice and aspect noticeably more feminine than it had been the last time they’d met. “You aren’t going to hit me again, are you?”

“She isn’t going to _what_?” Lucifer asked in a darkly threatening tone.

-*-

Crowley only just managed to stumble around the side of the tent, and out of sight, as Adam poked his head out of the opening, and the scent of sulfur wafted by on a warm breeze. He ended up sprawled, in the wet grass, on his backside, and quickly struggled up into a standing position, miracled away the damp patch on the back of his trousers, and tried to pretend that he still had some dignity left to maintain.

“I'm just going to check on everything,” he heard Adam say. “I'll be right back.”

Crowley smoothed down his suit, shot his cuffs, and after a deep breath, sauntered confidently around the side and into the tent.

Aziraphale looked up at the sound of him entering. His eyes crinkled, and his face softened, and he looked Crowley up and down as he favored him with that bright, angelic smile.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley said, smirking. “Looking good.”

Aziraphale looked down at his shoes-- pleased little smile and a slight flush to his cheeks. “So do y-,” he started, but then his head snapped up, and he gave Crowley a horrified look. “We aren't supposed to see each other before the ceremony!”

Crowley shrugged. “Aren't supposed to do a lot of things. It's never stopped us before.”

“But it's bad luck, Crowley.”

“Luck. Schmuck. I wanted to see you.”

The look Aziraphale gave him then was the same one he'd given Crowley a million times before— an _oh we shouldn't, _and a _you old serpent, _and a _temptation accomplished._

The look Crowley gave him back was the hungry look of a demon who knew that he'd won, and was about to reap the rewards of a bad job well done.

They closed the distance between them in an instant, and their lips met in a kiss that was tender and full of six millennia of denials, five years of practice, and an eternity of love.

-*-

While Yeshua assured his mother that he'd been eating properly, denied all wrongdoing, and assured her that he was quite capable of looking after himself, God just smiled _knowingly_ to Herself.


	20. Marching to Their Own Beat

“I didn't know that you were bringing mother,” Yeshua hissed, grabbing God's arm, as soon as Mary had finished berating him with motherly affection and gone to take her seat.

“I know. Is there some reason that I shouldn't have?”

Yeshua scowled. “If you know everything, why do you bother asking questions?”

“Because if I don't prod you, you won't say what you actually mean. And, until you voice your opinions, you can't ever seem to manage to figure out what they are.”

“You have an answer for everything,” Yeshua grumbled.

“I've been informed that it's 42.”

Yeshua frowned.

God sighed. “Never mind.You've been getting up to things that you oughtn't to. I brought Mary to ensure that you behave yourself on your last night on Earth. And,” She added, smirking a bit, “I needed a date.”

“I don't want to go back Upstairs.”

“I know.”

Yeshua huffed. “Don't start anything with Lucifer. You agreed to a truce.”

God inclined Her head in a short nod. “If you're finished, I think you should check on Crowley.”

-*-

“I see He's brought His little strumpet,” Lucifer grumbled. “Hypocrite. How He has the nerve to saddle her with the title _Virgin_, after six children, I can't even begin to imagine.”

“Six?” Adam raised a brow. “She still looks pretty good for having six kids.”

He'd given up on ever trying to figure out the whole pronoun thing where God was concerned. Lucifer seemed to be perfectly happy suiting pronoun to incarnation where Azazel was concerned, but God was always a big, biblical “He,”-- note the uppercase, to show deference, while injecting as much cynicism and disdain as possible in a single personal pronoun.

“Reincorporated body,” Lucifer scoffed, easily extending the cynicism and disdain to include The Virgin Mary. “He could have made her look thirteen again, if He wanted to. I get a thousand souls a day for pedophilia, but He knocks up a thirteen-year-old girl, slaps on a miracle, calls it _The Immaculate Conception_, and parents fill up auditoriums to watch children perform plays about it.”

Adam shifted uneasily. “It was socially acceptable at the time, though. She was set to be married either way. I suppose, if it hadn't been for Yeshua, she would have lost her virginity sooner, so really the whole Immaculate Conception thing… delayed the pedophilia.” Adam winced and shook his head. “Nope. You're right. It's pretty fucked up however you look at it. Anyone who's ever married or impregnated a thirteen-year-old deserves to be in Hell. I don't care what century they were born in.”

Lucifer favored his son with a look of approval. “Perhaps you should tell _Him_ that.”

Adam glanced over at God. “Nope. No one is telling anyone anything. Everyone is going to play nice and get along. Nothing is going to spoil this wedding. You're here for Crowley and Aziraphale, not to pick a fight with Grandma. I expect both of you to be on your best behavior. Anyway, you've agreed to a truce. If you break it, you'll just be confirming everything She's ever accused you of.”

Adam watched with no little satisfaction, as this last statement changed the look of cruel mischief that had been glinting in his father's eyes to a harder kind of determination. Pointing out an opportunity to prove God wrong about anything and everything was the surest way to ensure that Lucifer would do exactly that, and Adam wasn't above using that to his own ends.

The sorts of psychological tricks that Adam had picked up babysitting for Anathema had been invaluable when it came to dealing with his father. There wasn't much difference between an unruly toddler and The Lord of Darkness. They both thought they knew everything, stubbornly denied all authority, and threw temper tantrums when they didn't get their way, but they were easy enough to handle once you understood how their minds worked. Of course, William and Agnes had never sent him flying across a room when they were in a snit.

“You'd both better go and sit down. We'll be starting in a bit. Just have to fetch the grooms.”

-*-

Yeshua had returned to Crowley's tent, expecting to find him laying on the ground, drunkenly rambling to himself about the mating habits of waterfowl, or something similar. He should still have enough time to argue him into sobering up before the ceremony and get him to where he was supposed to be.

Instead, he found the tent empty, and his first thought was that Crowley had done a runner. Yeshua's second thought was that he knew exactly where Crowley had run to.

-*-

Adam's first thought upon entering Aziraphale’s tent was _not again_.

He wasn't surprised. _He really wasn't_. There were only so many times that you could walk in on the same two people having sex before it stopped being embarrassing and just got annoying. Instead of turning away, he crossed his arms, rolled his eyes skyward in the universal, silent prayer of ‘God give me strength,’ despite the fact that She wasn't currently at home, and cleared his throat loudly.

The writhing mass of black and white feathers paid no notice to him whatsoever, and Adam glared at the spectacle of Crowley's pale, skinny arse clenching and bobbing as he thrust his hips into what was presumably Aziraphale, bent over the table. Thankfully, the anatomical specifics were hidden from Adam's view by all the feathers, but it certainly sounded like Aziraphale—not that Adam would have expected it to be anyone else.

He cleared his throat again, just as Yeshua arrived beside him.

Yeshua did turn quickly to avert his eyes, with a startled grunt, and Crowley finally noticed their audience and looked over his shoulder at them.

“Really?” he demanded. “How have you still not figured out knocking? Were you born in a barn?”

Yeshua silently raised his hand, still not turning around.

“It's a tent, Crowley,” Adam said, deadpan. “You're getting married in less than ten minutes. I suggest you put your clothes back on.”

With that, Adam stepped back from the doorway, and let the tent flap fall closed behind him.

Aziraphale's muttered, “Oh, bugger,” followed him out.

“I guess we’ve failed in our duties as best men,” Yeshua said with a forlorn sigh.

Adam shrugged. “I'll drag them up to that altar in their pants, in ten minutes, if I have to. Unfortunately, it won't be anything that I haven't seen before.”

“You don't think they're actually going to… finish, do you?”

“I don't care if they do, but I'm honestly not above separating them with a garden hose, if they're still at it when the wedding march starts.”

Yeshua grimaced.

-*-

God and Mary had taken seats in the front row on the right side of the aisle and, not to be outdone, Lucifer and Azazel had seated themselves in the front, on the opposite side.

Lucifer pointedly refused to make eye contact, while God smiled serenely and made no pretense of not watching them.

The backed chairs were not at all suited to comfortably seat anyone with wings, so Lucifer and Azazel were both forced to sit sideways, facing each other. Thus, Lucifer had a perfectly polite excuse for turning his back to God, and Azazel had an excuse to slide her knees between his thighs.

Oscar, who had taken a seat beside Freddie in the second row, before any of the other guests had arrived, was ready to crawl out of his skin with the sheer force of the guilty terror he felt in such close proximity to his new lover's parents.

Freddie just seemed to be enjoying the show.

-*-

“So, are you with Heaven or Hell?” Pepper asked Warlock Dowling, by way of polite small talk, as they waited for the ceremony to begin.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you a demon or an angel?”

She had such a mildly curious expression on her face as she asked, that Warlock still thought he must have misheard her, but then he realized that it was Halloween, and everything clicked together. Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis had obviously elected to have a themed wedding. The left side of the aisle seemed to have gotten into the spirit of the thing slightly more than his fellow guests on the right side, but maybe there was going to be some kind of surprise flashmob later, and he hadn't been included due to travel constraints.

“Neither,” he said, “or both. I guess I'm neutral.”

“Like Aziraphale and Crowley then. That's cool,” she nodded. “I'm Pepper.”

“Warlock,” Warlock said, waiting for the inevitable comments on his unusual name.

Pepper didn't even blink. Instead, she asked, “Are you at university?”

Warlock decided right then that he liked her, and started telling her about his studies in philosophy at Harvard.

-*-

Aziraphale and Crowley were both looking thoroughly rumpled as they exited Aziraphale's tent, but at least they were wearing clothes again.

“I hope you both know just how utterly ridiculous you are,” Adam told them.

“Your feathers are all ruffled now,” Yeshua despaired.

Crowley shook out his wings, which only seemed to exacerbate the problem. The frantic strain of near panic was gone from his face, and instead he wore an almost angelic look of serene acceptance. “S'fine.”

Aziraphale just looked slightly dazed-- like he'd had all the brains fucked out of him. “We've decided to walk down the aisle together,” he said.

“What about the procession?” Adam asked.

“Fuck the procession,” Aziraphale said, and he hooked his arm through Crowley's, smugly pleased with himself. “We've always done things our own way, and we've always done them together. Why should this be any different?”

Just then, the wedding march started.

Adam blew out a breath. “Okay. Fuck the procession. Let's do this thing.”

“Just,” Yeshua said, and before he could object, he’d leant in and snatched Crowley's sunglasses off of his face. "You shouldn't hide your eyes when you make an oath.”

Crowley was still spluttering in outrage, as Yeshua folded them neatly and tucked them into the inside pocket of his jacket, and Aziraphale pulled him toward the bandstand.

So, it was a very red-in-the-face former demon and a rumpled former angel with a serious case of sex hair that lead the procession of two slightly confused witches, one Christ, one Antichrist, and a pair of children who had started up a mixed martial arts battle that was one part pillow fight and one part tactical, flower petal exchange, down the aisle.

Their guests looked on in bemusement—none quite so confused by the proceedings as Warlock Dowling.

Crowley’s anger had distracted him enough to get him down the aisle, without really noticing that it was even happening, and he'd finished grinding his teeth by the time they all took their places before the bandstand. Then, all that he was left with was the sense of wonder at what they were about to do.

Aziraphale was all too aware of every step, but he just concentrated on Crowley's arm in his and put one satin heel in front of the other. He smiled fondly at Crowley's shell-shocked expression, reached up to tuck a loose lock of ember hair into place, and gave his hand a squeeze, before they turned from each other to face the officiant.

“DEARLY BELOVED, WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY-"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually go through, after a fic is completed, and delete these types of author's notes-- about updates, what's going on in my life, and the like. But, this one is kind of funny, and it's a nice time capsule, so I'm leaving it here. Feel free to skip my little Covid19 rant, and continue to the next chapter, if you want.
> 
> Whelp, someone seems to have spilled plague all over the place. I'm going to go ahead and blame The Archangel Fucking Gabriel. This seems like his level of ass-hattery. Crowley is probably drunk somewhere, ranting about bats.
> 
> But, the point is... The point is…The point IS.  
I know this update is super late in coming, and I know we could all use a laugh, because the shit has really hit the fan (and we're all out of toilet paper, or bog roll,... or socks-- just don't flush those down the toilet; everyone has enough to worry about without giving the sewer and sanitation workers a big mess to clean up. Yeah, that's literally THEIR JOB, but use some common sense) and the guide says not to panic, but I've been panicking, and my head hasn't been in the right place for making sex jokes, or Jesus puns, or resurrecting dinosaurs, or running anyone over with the Bentley, or making inappropriate use of whipped cream, or various household products, or emotional support cocks named Prince Albert, or even automotive erotica, and certainly not a wedding, so…
> 
> What was my point?
> 
> Panic. Right. So, I needed a few weeks to wrap my head around all of this, but I've decided to take a leave of absence from work to stay home with my kids and self quarantine. I believe this is the right decision for my health and my family. I have a lot of things to get done besides writing, but I'm planning to have this fic finished in the next couple of weeks as well.
> 
> Everyone stay safe out there.


	21. Say, "I Do"

Death had been created by God, in a fit of pique, on the very day that Crowley and Aziraphale had first met on the wall in The Garden. He was neither of Heaven nor of Hell. He was called Azrael, the Angel of Death, and he was called Charron, ferryman of the River Styx (have your tickets ready, fare two silvers.) The Hebrews called him Abbadon. To the Greeks, he was Thanatos. He had many names, and he was present in nearly every theology across the world. He was always present. He was everywhere. That was kind of the whole point. 

He'd even been to his fair share of weddings , but this was the first he'd ever attended _by invitation._

The grim specter of Death covered the mortal world the same way that the ozone layer did—excepting that the more the one depleted, the more the other was clocking in the overtime.

He'd been here since the beginning. He'd be the last one here at the end—turning out the lights and locking up the doors. He was tired. He was overworked. And, he was supposed to have retired more than twelve years ago.

Still, for all that the mortals might fear him, might consider him evil, he didn't serve Hell. And, while he was still technically an angel, he didn't serve Heaven. He served the balance in a way that perhaps only God had the capacity to understand. His function could be cruel, but it could also be merciful.

He’d been neutral before it was cool.

So, when Crowley and Aziraphale had gotten down to the complicated business of planning a morally neutral, religious, wedding ceremony, Death had been the obvious choice to officiate.

It had taken another visit to a hospice center, and more than a little convincing, but here they were. 

“DEARLY BELOVED, WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY IN THE SIGHT OF GOD AND LUCIFER TO JOIN CROWLEY, SERPENT OF THE GARDEN, AND AZIRAPHALE, GAURDIAN OF THE EASTERN GATE, IN THE BONDS OF MATRIMONY.

“IF ANYONE CAN SHOW JUST CAUSE WHY THEY SHOULD NOT BE JOINED TOGETHER, LET THEM SPEAK NOW OR FOREVER HOLD THEIR PEACE.”

Death paused for a moment.

Then another moment.

The wedding party shifted uneasily.

An obliging cricket resonated its disinterest in the proceedings.

Crowley turned the full force of his glare, unmitigated by the filter of tinted lenses, upon the Angel of Death.

“JUST MAKING SURE,” Death said. He made a noise like crumbling gravestones from somewhere in the vicinity of his C4 vertebrae, in an approximation of clearing his throat. “CROWLEY AND AZIRAPHALE, IF IT IS YOUR DESIRE TO TAKE THE VOWS THAT WILL UNITE YOU IN A BOND OF MARRIAGE AT THIS TIME, PLEASE RESPOND, ‘IT IS.’”

Aziraphale let out a quavering breath, and smiled softly at Crowley. “It is.”

Crowley got lost in his angel's regard and didn't say anything at all.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale prompted.

“Hmm?” He suddenly remembered where he was and what he was supposed to be doing, and said. “Yeah. Sure. Course. It's why we're all here, isn't it?”

If Death had had eyes to roll, they would have been spinning in their sockets. “DO YOU, CROWLEY, TAKE AZIRAPHALE TO BE YOUR LAWFULLY WEDDED SPOUSE? FROM THIS DAY FORWARD, TO HAVE AND TO HOLD, IN GOOD TIMES AND BAD, THROUGH ALL THE DAYS OF THIS EARTH, AND WHATEVER SHOULD COME AFTER?”

“I do,” Crowley said in a harsh whisper, blinking his eyes rapidly a few times. He wasn't crying. _Really_. Yeshua had just stolen his sunglasses, and the light was bothering his eyes.

“DO YOU, AZIRAPHALE, TAKE CROWLEY TO BE YOUR LAWFULLY WEDDED SPOUSE? FROM THIS DAY FORWARD, TO HAVE AND TO HOLD, IN GOOD TIMES AND BAD, THROUGH ALL THE DAYS OF THIS EARTH, AND WHATEVER SHOULD COME AFTER?”

Aziraphale cried freely as his face melted into that special, soft smile that was only reserved for Crowley. “Oh, yes, I do. Very much so.”

“CROWLEY, PLEASE TAKE THE RING THAT YOU HAVE SELECTED FOR AZIRAPHALE. AS YOU PLACE IT ON HIS FINGER, REPEAT AFTER ME: ‘WITH THIS RING, I THEE WED.’”

There was some patting of pockets, as Yeshua frantically searched for the ring, until Adam gave it to him and he passed it to Crowley. Crowley’s hands were shaking, and he nearly dropped the ring as he fumbled the band onto Aziraphale’s finger. Of course, it didn't want to slide on at first and Crowley had to give it a little nudge of magic until it was comfortably seated at the base of Aziraphale's finger.

“You have to say the words, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Ah, right,” Crowley mumbled. He’d turned slightly pink with embarrassment and cleared his throat. “With this ring, I thee wed.”

“AZIRAPHALE, PLEASE TAKE THE RING THAT YOU HAVE SELECTED FOR CROWLEY. AS YOU PLACE IT ON HIS FINGER, REPEAT AFTER ME: ‘WITH THIS RING, I THEE WED.’”

Adam handed the ring to Aziraphale and Crowley extended his hand. “The other one, dear.” Aziraphale corrected gently, and Crowley was practically radiating embarrassed discomfort as Aziraphale slipped the ring onto his finger. “With this ring, I thee wed.”

“IN SO MUCH AS THE TWO OF YOU HAVE CONSENTED IN WEDLOCK, AND HAVE WITNESSED THE SAME BEFORE ALL THE POWERS HERE ASSEMBLED, BY THE AUTHORITY VESTED IN ME, BY MYSELF, I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU HUSBANDS.”

There was a moment of silence.

“YOU CAN GO AHEAD AND KISS NOW.”

“Didn't need your permission,” Crowley grumbled, with an agitated ruffle of his wings.

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley by the lapels and pulled him forward.

He let out an, “Oomph,” as their lips met, and then the rest of the world melted away.  
They were in their own little bubble, outside of time and space. It was just Crowley and Aziraphale, lips, and hands, and feathers, and the litany of _husbandhusbandhusbandhusbandhusband_, repeating endlessly through the static that Crowley’s mind had become.

Someone cleared their throat.

One of Aziraphale's hands clutched tightly into the back of Crowley's jacket, while the other was fisted into his hair. He'd stopped breathing, and just clung to Crowley like he was the only thing left in the whole, wide, breadth of creation. 

This was _his_. Crowley was _his_ now, and there was nothing that Heaven or Hell could ever do again to try to separate them. They were irrevocably _one_, tied in matrimony by the grace of God and the indulgence of Lucifer. They were safe. They were together. They were _married_.

Adam coughed. “Uh, guys? Want to at least keep it rated PG? There are kids here.”

The bubble popped.

Aziraphale looked sheepish, and Crowley was smiling smugly as they pulled apart.  
The recessional music started. The assorted guests clapped their hands. Freddie Mercury let out a wolf-whistle. 

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a triumphant look. Crowley held out his hand and quirked an eyebrow. Aziraphale nodded. They hadn't planned to do it, and they didn't need to discuss it now. Aziraphale took his hand, and they ran down the aisle, wings beating at the air to drive their momentum forward, until they soared low over the tents and landed before the Bentley.

They huffed out a few breaths at the exertion, exchanged a look, and both burst into laughter.

“We were supposed to do a reception line,” Aziraphale said, once he'd finally gotten control of the burst of relieved laughter.

“A what?”

“A reception line. We stand at the back and thank everyone for coming, and accept their congratulations and well wishes.”

“Oh,” Crowley looked back over his shoulder. “Did you want to do that?”

“Not at all.”

Crowley nodded. “Great. We're skipping it then.”

Aziraphale let out another nervous giggle. “This isn't going to plan at all.”

“Fuck the plan. We're hijacking the plan.”

“It's _our_ plan. It's _our_ wedding.”

“No one should mind then.” Crowley disappeared his wings from the mortal plane, and rounded the Bentley.

The Them had been delegated the task of decorating the getaway car. ‘JUST MARRIED,’ had been painted across its back window, and a few streamers of cans had been attached to the back bumper. 

This had seemed easy enough, when Adam had entrusted the job to them, but the strange love-triangle that was the Bentley, the Citroen, and the Wasabi, made it difficult to concentrate over the cacophony of music and Japanese poetry. But, as soon as they had finished, the Bentley had fallen silent, as though the seriousness of the occasion had finally registered, and the other two cars followed suit.

There would be more time for courting, once the Bentley had fulfilled its duties.

Crowley paused, examining the decorations, trying to decide what he thought about the changes. He glanced back up to Aziraphale, straightening his coat after miracling away his own wings, and then back down at the big letters that said JUST MARRIED.

“Hey, angel?”

“Yes, dear?”

“We just got married.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I'd noticed.”

“Right, just… _we're married_.”

“We are.”

Crowley shook his head in disbelief. “_Just married_.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck me,” Crowley huffed out in an amazed breath, as he continued to the driver's door.

“Oh, I intend to,” Aziraphale said, “ but first we have to cut the cake.”

Crowley's head snapped back up at that, and their eyes met over the Bentley’s roof. “We could take a detour,” he suggested, canting his head the side to give Aziraphale a questioning look.

Aziraphale considered. “I suppose there is time, what with skipping the reception line, and if we _are_ hijacking our own wedding…”

Crowley smirked. “Is that a _temptation accomplished_, then?”

“I think it is,” Aziraphale answered, “_husband_.”

“Get in the car, angel.”

The Bentley started before Crowley had even touched the key. Whatever it had going on in its own existence, Freddie had been right. Today was important to Crowley, and The Bentley was going to do everything in its not inconsiderable power to make sure that it was every bit the car that Crowley believed it to be.

Maybe it wasn't driving through the burning fires of Odegra, or sliming demons in a flight from the very pits of Hell, or slamming headlong into a resurrected carnivore from the Middle Jurassic, but when you were just married, driving back in style from Battersea Park to The Ritz, with a slight detour along the way, could top them all.

The Bentley settled on _Now I’m Here_ for a bit of mood music. _Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy_ would come later, as it always inevitably did. But, for now, it was just the three of them, the crowded streets of _their city_ spread out before them, and a whole lot of traffic laws to ignore.

_Don't I love you so_   
_Yes, you made me live again_   
_Come on! Everybody!_

_Yeah, ooh, a thin moon me in a smoke-screen sky_   
_Where beams of your lovelight chase_   
_Don't move, don't speak, don't feel no pain_   
_With the rain running down my face_


	22. You Can't Choose Your Family, But Sometimes a Bunch of Satanic Nuns Choose it for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale are completely absent from this chapter, it can be assumed that they are driving around somewhere, doing naughty things in the back of the Bentley.

Warlock hadn't thought much about it when The Grim Reaper had seemed to appear out of nowhere to officiate the wedding.

It was some pretty impressive special effects make up. He really did look like a skeleton from a few rows back, and he certainly had the voice for it. Nanny and Brother Francis had really gone all out with the Halloween theme.

The ceremony itself was a bit odd, but then, that hadn't been much of a surprise either. Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis had always been a bit odd—they had a code of ethics and way of looking at the world that had meshed and opposed in a complicated dance that had been completely lost on his childhood self, but had been the cause of some speculation and analysis as an adult.

Even their changes in appearance hadn't thrown him completely. Nanny Ashtoreth _(or was it Crowley now?)_ had still seemed very much the person Adam had remembered. And Brother Francis, _Aziraphale, _well… Warlock certainly wouldn't have recognized him on the street. He seemed to be giving a bit more care to his appearance these days. But, the way he looked at Nanny, _Crowley, _was unmistakable.

It wasn't until after they'd finished snogging like the world was ending that Warlock started questioning his whole existence.

It was the wings.

He'd dated a girl who was into the whole cosplay/convention scene. He'd seen high quality prosthetic wings before. He'd thought that these ones were nice, well articulated, and very lifelike. Top end stuff. Probably set them back a few grand. The whole Heaven and Hell theme was a nice touch—very original. It fit-- the bad boy and the retired vicar. But, ultimately, Warlock had just taken the wings as another prop to the whole wedding extravaganza.

But then, they had taken flight.

They had actually flown.

Great beats of strong muscles and sinew that sent the air blowing through his hair.

At that moment, it was as if all the memories that he had somehow forgotten from his childhood came flooding back.Falling in the garden and scraping his knee, and Brother Francis waving his hand over it, saying, ‘There, there, all better now. No damage done,’ and there hadn't been. The skin had been perfect and unblemished, though Warlock would have sworn that he'd been bleeding a moment before. Or, there had been the time that little snot, Nancy Streeter, had been making fun of his accent, and Nanny had just given her a look over the top of her glasses, and Nancy had spent the next three days talking like some Californian valley girl from the movie _Clueless_.And, the way Nanny drove around in that big, black car, well… Warlock could understand why he'd repressed _those _memories.

He was still sitting in his seat, mouth slightly ajar, remembering it all with startling clarity, when the very familiar sound of the engine of the car in question, roaring to life and speeding off through busy London streets, brought him back to his senses.

The other guests had all risen to their feet and were milling about, chatting and discussing travel plans to The Ritz. He took them in again, the winged pair on the opposite side of the aisle, the fellow who looked an awful lot like Freddie Mercury and his old-fashioned friend in the velvet suit, the old man at the back in his dirty mackintosh, the two women a few rows up from him that seemed to glow slightly with their own light.

Warlock slowly rose to his feet. “Um, excuse me?” he asked Pepper. She, at least, had seemed normal enough.

She turned to look at him with a bland smile. “Yeah?”

“Um… I don't really know how to ask this. Who… _what_… are they?”

“Who?” Pepper asked, looking around.

“Nanny and… I mean, Crowley and Aziraphale?”

“What do you…” She frowned. “Wait, who are you? How do you know them? I thought you were a friend from work?”

“No. I mean, they worked for my family. Crowley was my nanny, and Aziraphale was our gardener.”

“Crowley was your…” She suddenly snorted out a laugh and covered her mouth. “I'm sorry? Did you just say that Crowley was your _nanny_?”

Despite the oddity of the situation, Warlock stiffened defensively. “He was a very _good _nanny.”

“I…” Pepper blinked. “So… you're a muggle.”

“I… what?” Warlock looked around again, feeling more out of his depth than ever. Maybe this _was _just some weird, meta, cosplay, Harry Potter themed wedding that had gotten _way_ out of hand. Was that guy in the back supposed to be Mad-Eye Moody? Did J.K. Rowling write some more books that he didn't know about?”

“No, wait, hang on. It's okay.” Pepper put a hand on his shoulder. “When’s your birthday?”

_Because, that question made perfect sense, under the circumstances_… “August 20th,” Warlock answered uncertainly.

“2008?”

“…y-yes.”

“There's someone that I think you should meet.”

“You're not about to tell me I'm a wizard, are you?” he asked, because _really_, at this point, it wouldn't have surprised him.

She laughed and covered her face again. “I thought you said you were a Warlock?”

-*-

Adam was trying to extract himself from the remaining wedding party long enough to make his way over to Oscar, when Pepper caught his attention, and he turned to see her walking toward him with a dark-haired stranger.

Except, stranger wasn't really the right word. Adam didn't need to be introduced to Warlock Dowling to know _exactly_ who he was. He looked like a younger, better dressed, version of Adam's father, but with his mother's eyes and nose.

“Adam,” Pepper said, “have you met Warlock?”

“No, I haven't,” Adam said, forcing a smile, and extending his hand.

“He says that Crowley used to be his nanny, and it's the strangest coincidence, but the two of you have the _same birthday_.” Pepper gave him an expectant look.

He hadn't needed the confirmation, but he still felt a pang of fear at what the next few minutes might change. He was standing face to face with Arthur and Diedre Young's natural born son, and he had no idea what that might mean for _him_. What happened to the imposter cow bird . when the real chick came home to roost?

“We have the same birthday?” Warlock asked, looking from Adam to Pepper. “Wait. How did you know that we would have the same birthday? Are one of you going to explain what's going on?”

“He doesn't know about Crowley and Aziraphale,” Pepper said. “No idea about any of it, I think.”

“Yeah, Pepper, _thanks_. I'm getting that,” Adam said.

“Looks an awful lot like your dad,” she pointed out.

“Yes, _thank you_, Pepper.”

“Might want to fill him in.”

“Yeah, _thanks, Pepper_. Why don't you get Wensleydale and Brian to help you get everyone on the bus?”

“What bus?”

Adam waved a hand at the car park, as if in gesture. “The Citroen party bus,” he said pointedly.

“_Riiiight_,” Pepper thumbed her nose at him and walked off yelling, “Alright, you lot, everybody onto the bus!”

Adam rolled his eyes at her and then gave Warlock an appraisal. He seemed confused and maybe a little shell-shocked, but he didn't look like he was about to run away screaming, so Adam figured that he could handle a few revelations.

“Why don't you and I take a little walk?”

-*-

Oscar frowned as he watched Adam walk off with another young man. “Any idea who that is?” he asked Freddie.

Freddie followed his gaze. “No, but I don't know who most of these people are.”

Pepper walked over then. “Adam wants everyone on the bus.”

“Who is that he went off with?” Oscar asked her.

Pepper smirked. “That's his brother.”

“I didn't know that he had a brother.”

Pepper shrugged. “Sort of. They kind of just met. Well, unless you count the whole baby swap thing.”

Oscar's brow furrowed as he thought it over for a minute. “Cow bird,” he said finally, “yes, I see.”

“What kind of bird?” Freddie asked.

-*-

Lucifer was watching them as they walked off along the path, as well. He hadn't given much thought to little Warlock since Meggido, when the truth had come out.

It seemed strange now. He'd watched the child grow from a distance, believing him to be his son, but now, seeing him beside Adam, there could be no question as to which boy was a true part of his spirit, and he wondered how he had gone eleven years without suspecting the truth.

He wondered, too, what would have happened if Warlock _had_ been his son. Would they have had their war? He spared a glance at God, and found his gaze met with a _knowing _look. He scowled and looked away quickly.

It was beyond irritating to have an adversary who always knew what you were thinking. What made it worse was that sense that, even when you won, it was all part of some greater ineffable scheme to make sure that you were the one with your feet in the fire at the end of it.

Lucifer was well convinced that even Crowley’s incompetence with the baby swap had been God's doing. Adam was never meant to start Armageddon, and whatever God's long-game was, Lucifer’s son was sure to figure into it. He seriously doubted that Adam had finished playing his role in whatever ineffable machinations God was busy working on all of His creations.

Lucifer wanted nothing to do with it, but when had he ever had any choice in the matter?

He wrapped an arm around Azazel and pulled her close, as he plastered a smile onto his face and turned his back on God. He slid a hand down the sheer silk of her dress to settle it on the small of her back.

This. This was what he chose for himself. He'd have Azazel and their son. Let God make His plans. So be it. He didn't care anymore. He was done fighting the inevitable, and the ineffable too, come to that. He was going to choose for himself what happiness he could find.

God could keep His fucking board games.

-*-

Warlock wasn't sure what he thought of Adam exactly. He looked to be one of the “normal" people, but he also acted like he was the one in charge of everything. But, then, he was Brother Francis' best man, so he probably _had_ been put in charge of everything. Nanny's best man didn't look like he could be trusted to handle much more than a mocha latte.

“So, I don't know how to say this, and I don't think there's any way to put it delicately, and it's going to sound crazy either way, so I'm just going to say it,” Adam started. “Crowley used to be a demon, and Aziraphale used to be an angel. The reason they were working for your family is that they're both idiots, and they, mistakenly, thought that you were the Antichrist.”

“You're right,” Warlock said. “That does sound crazy.”

And it did, it really did, but it also kind of made sense. He'd seen enough that didn't fit into the expected order of things to almost believe it. Almost.

“Also, your parents aren't your biological parents. A bunch of nuns were supposed to swap me with the biological child of the American Cultural Attaché to Britain, your father, but they messed it all up, so instead of taking home the Antichrist, your parents ended up with the biological child of The Youngs. That would be you. They're just a couple of ordinary people from Lower Tadfield, in Oxfordshire, who just happened to be in the wrong hospital at the wrong time—my parents.”

“Your… parents…” Warlock's brain had turned to static somewhere along the line. The worst part of it was that this part made a kind of odd sense too. He wasn't sure he'd followed everything Adam had said after ‘_Your parents aren't your biological parents_,’ but he didn't look anything like either of his parents, and he'd never really felt like he fit in with the rest of his family. It wasn't anything specific, just a general feeling of not being _quite right_.

“So, you're saying that you're my parents' real son?” Warlock asked when he felt like he could speak again.

“Well,” Adam hedged. “As far as my parents, The Youngs, are concerned, I'm the only son they've ever known, but I don't have anything to do with the Dowlings. I'm the Antichrist.”

“The Antichrist,” Warlock repeated.

Adam nodded.

“You're the Antichrist. My nanny was a demon, and our gardener was an angel. So, I suppose that guy performing the wedding ceremony was _actually_ The Grim Reaper, then?”

“Yeah, but he's a complete arse. Don't talk to him, if you can avoid it.”

Warlock took a breath. He wondered what a normal person's reaction to a wild story like this would be. He took another breath. “And Pepper? Is she some kind minor deity as well?”

Adam snorted. “She'd like to think so, but no. Human as they come. Just a mate. There's a couple of witches around though, a couple witchfinders, my biological parents, God, the Virgin Mary, Freddie Mercury…” Adam smirked a little. “Oscar Wilde. It's going to be quite the party at the reception.”

Warlock chewed at his lower lip and nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. He mulled it all over for a moment. “This is all very weird.”

“You really have no idea.”

“What am I supposed to do here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do I just believe you and go along with all this, or should I run screaming back to America and pretend like this was all some crazy dream?”

Adam shrugged. “What do you want to do?”

Warlock thought it over again. Part of him really did want to forget about all of this. Part of him was curious as to just how far down the rabbit hole he could go. Part of him had really been looking forward to working up the courage to ask Pepper to dance later. Another part of him just didn't feel equipped to handle any of this, and the calm detachment that he was affecting right now felt like it was going to shatter at any moment. He wasn't sure he was ready for whatever was underneath.

Another young man, forced to deal with a situation beyond his ability to cope with, might have wanted his mother, but Harriet Dowling had never really been the sort of mother who kissed away her son’s tears, or tucked him into bed at night with assurances that the whole world would one day bow at his feet, or told him that everything was going to be okay. She'd hired other people to do that for her.

“I think,” Warlock said. “I think I want my nanny.”

“Well, you'd better come to the reception then,” Adam told him. “Come on, I made us a party bus. It will be fun. This will probably all seem a lot more reasonable after a few drinks.”

Alcohol. Yes. Nanny had had many things to say about the virtues of alcohol. Warlock hadn't put any of it to the test until he'd been much older, but like most of Nanny’s advice, he’d found that it held true.

-*-

Adam was surprised that Pepper had managed to get almost everyone onto the bus.

Only the Pulsifers lingered, Anathema and Newton trying to decide which of them should drive Dick Turpin to The Ritz, and which of their children should be allowed to ride on the bus, and Agnes and William loudly fighting over the same question.

“Sorry kids,” Adam said, putting a hand on one shoulder of each, to separate them. “I don't think it's a good idea for either of you to ride on the bus.”

“Oh, come on, Adam,” William whined. “I promise I'll be good.”

“It isn't _you_ that I'm worried about,” Adam told him, ruffling his hair.

William pushed him away with an irritated huffand ran back to his father.

“How about this?” Adam asked, and waved a hand at the Wasabi.

The little car made a pop like a backfiring engine and turned into a robin's egg blue, Volkswagen microbus, with pink and yellow flowers and peace signs painted all over it.

Newton and Anathema spun around together in surprise at the sudden transformation. Newton appeared utterly dismayed, but Anathema was just relieved that she no longer had to entertain the prospect of having either of her children stuck on a bus full of inebriated supernatural entities. Even with God on board that seemed like a recipe for disaster.

“That's much better,” she said. “Thanks, Adam. You take both of the kids, Newt, and I'll ride with the rest of the wedding party.”

“By myself?” Newt asked, dismayed.

“I'll get Shadwell to go with you.”

Before Newton could object, though he obviously wanted to, Anathema had disappeared onto the larger bus to fetch the retired Witchfinder Sergeant.

“Uh, Adam?” Warlock piped up from beside him.

Adam had nearly forgotten about him. “Yeah?”

“How did you do that? The thing with the car?”

“Magic. I told you; I'm the Antichrist.”

“Yeah, I know that's what you _said_, but… you turned that car into a hippy bus… It has peace signs painted on it…. I don't remember anything like that in_ The Omen_ or _Rosemary's Baby._”

“I'm not that kind of Antichrist.”

“What kind of Antichrist are you then?” Warlock asked.

Adam thought about it. He remembered that sense of _knowing _when his powers had taken hold- the feeling that he could know, and see, and control _evereything. _The kraken pulling whaling vessels into the briny depths, Brazilian rainforests and abused mall trees stretching limbs up toward clear skies, the city of Atlantis rising up for a game of quoits, subterranean Tibetan tunnels, nuclear reactors with cores of lemon sweets, and aliens coming to Earth with messages of intergalactic peace and harmony. He gestured at the Volkswagen and shrugged. “Peace, man,” he said, in the voice of an aged hippy.

At the same time, Shadwell stepped off the bus and made a disgusted sound. “Och, what did he let the lad do to yer car, Private? He's bedeviled it with his demon magicks. I'll nae ride in the devil's beatnik wagon.”

“Hurry up, Grampy Shadwell,” Agnes said excitedly, grabbing him by the hand. “You can sit with me. There's dinosaurs painted on the ceiling, inside, and it has curtains on the windows. It's super cool.”

Adam laughed as Shadwell’s protests melted away in the wake of Agnes' unbridled enthusiasm.

“Come on,” Adam said, clapping a hand on Warlock's shoulder, as he turned toward the Citroen. “If I'm not quite what you expected from the Antichrist, you should meet my uncle so you can compare-- get the mismatched set.”

“What does that mean?”

Adam shot a grin back over his shoulder. “You need Jesus.”


	23. A Lull in the Storm

Adam felt just the tiniest bit guilty about pawning his pseudo-brother off on Yeshua-- even more so when he found Yeshua, with Freddie, in the middle of both a bottle of cheap wine and an involved conversation about cats, but he really wanted a chance to spend some more time with Oscar before the night was over.

He shot a glance over at him, sitting at the back of the bus with an open seat beside him, held up one finger to beg off for another moment, and moved back to the front of the bus, where Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian were sitting.

“Do you mind playing chauffeur again, Pep?” he asked, jingling the Citroen's keys at her.

“This is a bus, Adam.”

Adam looked around, as if he needed to verify the validity of that statement. “Yes,” he said.

“I'm not licensed to drive a bus.”

“You're not going to get a citation, Pepper. I think that between the lot of us, we can manage to dissuade the cops.”

“I don't know how to _drive a bus_, Adam.”

“It isn't that hard. It's just like a car, only bigger.”

“Let me put this another way: I'm NOT driving a bus through Central London.”

“Wensleydale?” Adam asked, giving the keys another jingle.

Wensleydale shrunk back into his seat. “No way, Adam. I don't even like driving a car in London. There's no way I'm driving this thing.”

Adam sighed and looked at Brian skeptically.

“I'll do it,” Brian said.

Adam didn't hand him the keys. Pepper and Wensleydale looked on in trepidation.

“What?” Brian asked.

“You're a terrible driver,” Pepper told him, not bothering with the modicum of tact that Adam had been trying to work into his response.

“Me?” Brian asked. “Have you ridden with Adam?”

“I'm an excellent driver,” Adam protested.

“He is, actually,” Wensleydale said. “I still find the excessive speed and aggressive overtaking disconcerting, but his reflexes and spacial perception make up for his lack of self preservation.”

“And what about me?”

“You drive like a ten-year-old who stole his grandfather's car, to go joyriding, and can't quite see over the dash, or reach the pedals.”

Brian furrowed his brow. “I'm not that bad…”

Adam looked to Pepper again, eyes pleading. “Please.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I'm going to give the keys to Brian.” He slowly started moving his hand in that direction, not breaking eye contact. “See, look. In just a moment, Brian is going to be driving this bus, full of all these innocent people. Well… mostly innocent… mostly people.”

“I'm not doing it, Adam,” Pepper said firmly, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Fine,” Adam said. “Have it your way.” He tossed the keys to Brian.

Pepper's hand shot out to intercept, and snatched them out of the air. “I hate you,” she grumbled.

“You do not. I'm adorable.”

“You're the spawn of Satan.”

“Your mom gave birth to you at a weird commune. You don't see me holding it against you, do you? _Pippin Galadriel Moonchild?_” Adam winced in reflex, even as the words left his mouth, though it had been several years since pugilism had been Pepper’s instinctual response to the sound of her given name.

She rose to her feet, smoothed her hands over her suit and said. “Straight into the Thames, Adam."

Adam grinned. “If you're planning to put us in the river, you might as well let Brian drive.”

He left Pepper to figure out how to drive the bus and started making his way back toward Oscar.

-*-

Aziraphale gasped out as he slumped back into the Bentley’s rear seat. For a moment, he thought that the way the world seemed to be blurring around them was caused by the aftershocks of whatever Crowley had just done to him—talk about making the Earth move. He was still hazily recovering some semblance of coherent thought, when he slowly came to the realization that it wasn’t just the mind-blowing orgasm that made it feel like they were hurtling through London at improbable speeds.

“Dearest?” Aziraphale asked.

“Hmmm?” Crowley was slumped into the seat beside him, and didn’t even open his eyes.

“Who’s driving the car?”

Crowley slowly opened his eyes and sat up enough to look around. “’S driving i'self,” he said, and slumped back down, this time on top of Aziraphale—snuggling in to wrap, what seemed like more limbs than a bipedal, human-shaped being should possess, around him.

“Is that not a cause for concern?”

“Naw. It does that now. Kidnapped Freddie last night. Just made off with him. No idea what it was thinking. I had to track them down in that horrible little car that Anathema’s husband drives.”

Aziraphale remained motionless as he processed this, and Crowley snuggled, contentedly, tighter against him, like a constrictor who’d fallen desperately in love with his next meal.

“Do you think that we should be concerned?” Aziraphale asked.

“Concerned ‘bout what?”

“That the Bentley has suddenly decided that kidnapping people is acceptable behavior,” Aziraphale said. “We do have a wedding reception to get to, and all of our guests. It wouldn’t do to be late, or… not arrive at all.”

“The Bentley isn’t going to kidnap _us._ It just got a bit too emotionally invested in Freddie, and lost its senses for a bit. _Like you do_. Everything is back to normal now. Mostly.”

“_Mostly_?” 

“The old girl might be a little infatuated with Adam’s Citroen, but I’ve put a stop to it.” Crowley raised his voice, addressing the Bentley now. “Any car of mine is going to have _better taste_.”

Aziraphale bristled, indignant on the Bentley’s behalf. “Don’t you think that its taste is something the Bentley ought to be able to work out for itself?”

“I think I’m going to buy you a car,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale had been busy picturing the look of disgust on Gabriel’s face whenever his association with Crowley was up for discussion, and imagining what kinds of things Heaven might have to say about his own tastes, and Crowley’s seeming non sequitur brought him up short. “You know that I don’t drive.”

“It can be a wedding present. Something with a little class, a little speed, nice lines, a whole lot of style.”

“I don’t drive, and that doesn’t sound as though it would suit me at all. What’s wrong with the Bentley?”

“Nothing is wrong with the Bentley. It just needs to find another car its own speed, something a little more up its alley. I don’t think you’d actually need to drive the car, if you’re so opposed. You could just sit in it and read, or something, if you want. Care for it like one of your books—like some valuable first edition that you have to keep in mint condition. Wax it on Sundays. Get it detailed once a year. Then, in half a century or so, enough of your power will have rubbed off on it to make it a suitable companion for the Bentley.”

“Crowley, are you proposing an arranged marriage _for your car_?”

“Why not? The humans have been doing it for ages, and it seems to work out okay for them.”

“Not always.”

“No, well, _not always_, but don’t you think the Bentley deserves a better option than whatever that underpowered, commuter monstrosity that Pulsifer drives is, or a Citroen _C3 Pluriel_?”

“Uh…” Aziraphale sat up, causing Crowley to flop awkwardly aside. He could point out each of the minor differences between the first and second printing of any given Wilde or Wodehouse first edition, but when it came to automobiles he was completely at sea. “Are those… _bad_ cars?”

“The worst,” Crowley agreed.

“I see,” Aziraphale said. “Well, we wouldn’t want the old girl to be fraternizing with the _wrong sort_, now would we?”

“Exactly,” Crowley agreed. “Wait… was that meant to be a jibe at me?”

“I have no idea what you mean," Aziraphale said tersely.

-*-

Adam was working his way toward the back of the bus, and Oscar, as Pepper navigated them jerkily out of the car park. As the bus took a hard turn around the corner, he didn't grip the seat to stabilize himself quickly enough, and found himself dumped unceremoniously into God's lap.

“Oh, fuck! Sorry, Gran,” he mumbled as he tried to right himself.

“You're forgiven,” She said in a way that seemed to permeate deep down into whatever he had instead of a soul, and leave a warm _safe_ feeling in its wake.

“Ah, yeah. Right. Thanks.”

“I've been wanting to talk with you, anyway.”

Adam found himself sitting in the empty seat across the aisle from God, before he'd made any conscious decision to do so. He shot a look back over his shoulder to Oscar, apologetically.

“Have you met Mariam?” She asked, gesturing to the woman beside her.

“Ah, no. Yeshua’s mum, right? Pleasure to meet you, ma'am.”

“I was very interested in meeting you,” The Virgin Mary said. “You look very much like your father.”

“Er, thanks, I guess…” Adam rubbed at the back of his neck uncomfortably. “You look a lot like Yeshua.”

“Yes, I think he favors me over his Father.”

Adam glanced at God, seeing no family resemblance whatsoever.

She smiled at him. “Technically, all men are created in My image, but as I have no true corporeal form, it makes discussing genetic similarities a bit tricky.”

“I wasn't, uh,… questioning his paternity.”

“Of course not.”

“You said there was something that you wanted to talk to me about,” Adam prompted.

“I just wanted to let you know how pleased I am that you're taking a more active role in Hell.”

“An _active role_?”

“Yes. You've been spending much more time in the pits lately, and you've been expending a great deal of creative power. I'm happy to see that you're easing into your responsibilities.”

“I'm,” Adam started, but he didn't want to just keep repeating everything that God said. ”You mean with Dilly?”

God's smile strained at the edges. “Ah, yes, the _dinosaur._”

“I made him a habitat,” Adam defended. “I'm not down there torturing anyone.”

“I think Duke Hastur would disagree.”

“He's a demon. He's being punished for trying to kill me. I didn't decide on the punishment. I'm just feeding my dinosaur.”

“Nor does your father pass judgment on the mortals. He merely performs a function.”

“There's another thing,” Adam said. “I’ve looked over the ledgers. Some of the sins people are being punished for down there aren't even proper sins anymore, if they ever were. And I don't think you're playing fair with everyone. Freddie's committed at least a dozen Second Circle worthy offenses in the last week.”

“I don't judge them either,” God said. “They judge themselves. Freddie has an arrangement with his partner. He feels no guilt over what he has done. He does not see any of his actions as a transgression, therefore he doesn't feel that he should be punished for them.”

“Meanwhile, Oscar had the poor fortune of being born into the wrong century, so he's doomed to an eternity of torment—just another victim of circumstance.”

“Ah, yes, _Oscar_.” She glanced to the back of the bus, fixing her consideration on him. “The two of you have become quite close.”

“Yes. We have.”

God looked back at him, Her open eyes seeming to see right through him. “You should know that he's become as fond of you as you are of him.”

Adam stiffened. “I don't need you to tell me that.”

“No?” She raised a brow at him. “It's good to see you're so confident. That should make things easier.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You'll have some difficult decisions to make before the night is over—your own test of conscience. I wonder if you'll make the right choice. It does make things interesting to see what happens when My creations possess both power _and_ free will. Aziraphale and Crowley have just used theirs to get married. I wonder what you'll do with yours.”

“Yeah, great, Gran. Cryptic as ever. Glad we had this chat.”

Adam started to rise to his feet, but She put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Come to speak with me again before the night is over. If you choose what I think you will, I have a gift for you.”

“And if I don't do what you expect?” Adam asked. “You might remember that I don't have a great track record with meeting others’ expectations.”

“We'll just have to see what the night brings,” She said.

“Sure. It was nice talking to you, _as always_,” he said drily.

“I _do_ hear your prayers,” She said.

_Prayers? _Adam thought in disbelief. _What prayers? _He didn't think he'd ever prayed in his life.

“Even when you don't know that you're doing it,” She added.

“That's creepy,” Adam said, pointing at Her. “Do you know how creepy that is? And rude. Stay out of my head.”

“Hazards of the occupation, I'm afraid.” She gave him an apologetic smile.

“Maybe you should find another line of work.”

“Do you think so?” She tilted Her head to the side. “I always thought that I would make an excellent blackjack dealer.”

Adam snorted. “Not sure that would be much of a change. The house always wins.” With that, he continued on his way.

He very nearly made it back to Oscar this time, snagging a bottle of brandy from the bar that Madame Tracy was busy ransacking to make some complicated cocktail, and passing by Yeshua and Freddie telling Warlock about the stag night, when he was stopped again—this time by his father.

“What did _He_ want?” Lucifer asked.

Adam sighed. “The fuck if I know. Apparently She's happy that I'm taking a more active role in Hell.”

Adam watched as his father's face made a complicated dance of processing the fact that he agreed with God about something.

“I'll catch up with you later,” he said, before he could be dragged into any complicated family politics. “Pepper is threatening to drive us into the Thames again, and I want to be closer to the emergency exit, if she does.”

Adam eased past, and slid into the empty seat beside Oscar. He slumped over against him and let out a relieved sigh.

“Having a difficult day?” Oscar asked.

Adam turned his face in against Oscar's jacket, inhaled slowly, and sat up straighter. “Actually, everything has gone better than I expected. Aziraphale and Crowley are married. No one is dead.” Adam winced, and met Oscar's eyes apologetically.

“Oh, rest assured, I feel quite alive at the moment.” He slid a hand over Adam’s thigh at the same time he gestured over to where Death was sitting, with Anathema of all people. “Your skeletal friend, there, is the one I'd be worried about. He isn't looking too good.”

Adam snickered.

-*-

The bus, that was sometimes a battered Citroen, made its way steadily from Battersea Park to The Ritz.

Somewhere, deep inside the inner workings of its gears and pistons, it was dreaming of slipping into the form of a sporty, two-seater, convertible—the automotive equivalent of putting on that one red dress that you keep for special occasions. Or maybe something with a little muscle, but no less sex appeal-- a candy apple red, ’66 mustang, with a 289 V8. That would be just the thing for a night on the town with a dark and handsome classic Bentley.

Above, the Heavenly Host drilled and practiced their manoeuvres. Requisition forms were being filled out and filed, as weapons were honed and distributed, and the angels, in their multitudinous ranks, readied for war.

Below, the Hellish Hoard massed in their seething millions, practicing their battle cries as they made ready their second (or was it third?) glorious rebellion. Dagon, lord of the files, responded to queries about weapon requisitions with eccentric creativity. Teeth gnashed, sores oozed, and their odd assortment of blades went snicker snack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The-a-person (over on tumblr) made some awesome fanart for this series. [Check it out](https://the-a-person.tumblr.com/post/615910178429239296/some-sketchy-thing-i-did-for-lyowyns-princes-of)


	24. Two Halves of a Whole Idiot

Aziraphale had somehow managed to book the entirety of the Ritz's William Kent House for the wedding reception. The three other bookings that had already been scheduled had miraculously needed to cancel just before he had called.

It was opulent in the extreme, and probably would have cost a normal person a fortune, but Aziraphale hadn't given the cost any thought at all. Such mundane matters as bills and finances always had a way of working themselves out when Crowley was involved.

There was more space in the 18th century townhouse than their small wedding party could possibly account for: with a grand hall, drawing room, three dining rooms, music room, and an outdoor garden terrace.

They would only be using one of the dining rooms, of course, but considering everyone that was involved, privacy had been of the utmost concern.

The valets were professionals. What's more, they were professionals who were familiar with Crowley and Aziraphale, so they didn't bat an eye when the large bus arrived, with strobing, interior, party lights, followed by the most stereotypically 60s, Volkswagen microbus imaginable, and a group of rowdy supernatural beings and assorted drunken mortals embarked from one, while two harassed looking men chivvied a couple of children out of the other. They merely exchanged a look of silent confirmation at the strangeness of the situation, and took charge of the vehicles, while their occupants chattered and made their way inside.

Bernard waited at the valet station while his two coworkers took care of the buses. He had been a valet, working for The Ritz, since 1988. That was 43 years of dealing with both Mr. Crowley and Mr. Crowley’s rather temperamental 1926 Bentley.

The Ritz’s wait staff got used to seeing their regular customers-- knew what sorts of wine they preferred, their favorite dishes, got used to seeing couples together, and learned their names. It was the same way with the valets, except that it was the cars and not the people that they became familiar with. They knew if your Porche 911 smoked like a chimney from a faulty oil separator. They knew if your Jaguar XF had a sticky shift knob selector. They knew if you had your car serviced consistently. They knew if you were a smoker and left takeaway crumbs all over the passenger seat. They knew if you drove your McLaren like a complete and utter wanker, burned out the clutch in the first six months, and while you were quite happy with your status symbol and how rich and cool everyone thought you were driving around in your fancy super car, you didn’t quite have the financial liquidity to shell out for the £10,000 repair to replace the gearbox.

Bernard was _very_ familiar with The Bentley, and it had become _The Bentley_ in his mind. All other Bentleys were just Bentleys, but Mr. Crowley’s 1926 Bentley was **_The Bentley_**. Over the years of his employment, he’d gained the reputation as the only one who could manage to drive it with any reliable consistency. When Bernard had threatened to retire last year, his supervisor had begged, pleaded, wheedled, and eventually offered him a hefty bonus and salary raise to get him to stay—simply because no one else could drive _The Bentley_ the short distance between The Ritz Dining Room and the parking garage that it employed.

Part of the problem, of course, was that, unbeknownst to Bernard or any of the other valets and staff, half of what kept The Bentley’s engine happily chuntering away was simply Crowley’s belief that his car was a fine tuned speed machine, and absent its owner and his demonic influence behind the wheel, The Bentley was simply less likely to cooperate under its own volition. The rest of it was merely that driving any car that was over a hundred years old was a much more involved process than most drivers, even professional ones, were trained to handle. The Bentley had a fighter jet’s worth of toggle switches, knobs, and dials scattered across the dash to contend with. Bernard didn’t think any of the other valets would even be able to start the engine—pull out two of the knobs to energize the coils, another knob to switch on the ignition, retard the ignition with one of the levers on the steering wheel boss, and set the hand throttle with the other, then turn the key and press the starter button to the left of the switch panel. Assuming it was running when some other, uninitiated, valet decided to try his hand at parking the great beast, they would still have to contend with all the idiosyncrasies of _The Bentley’s _gear box—shifting and double-declutching early from first to second, give her some power and shift quick and smooth from second to third (up, right, up,) no flinching from third to fourth, just a hard straight pull down on the gearstick, and hold on to your hat.

It was what Bernard had called job security twenty years ago, and what he thought of as his personal cross to bear-- now that he would rather be puttering around his shed and spending time with the grandkids on a well-earned pension. Still, she was a beautiful old car, a marvel of engineering, and she deserved to be treated like a lady. He didn’t trust any of these new kids to open her doors.

Bernard didn’t have to wait long. The Bentley rolled up with the final chorus of _Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy, _and her newlywed owner stepped out—looking as young as he had the day Bernard had first taken his keys, and happier than Bernard had ever seen him. Judging by the steam fogging up The Bentley’s windows, he had good reason.

The other one, the fluffy haired companion, turned husband, hung back, under the pretense of fussing with his suit, while Crowley gave Bernard the usual stern lecture about the proper level of care that should be taken with his vehicle and all the repercussions of not exercising the necessary caution. Bernard listened with the same bland and attentive expression that he always did, until Mr. Crowley had winded himself out.

Before Bernard could get behind the wheel of his charge though, the husband caught his arm. “Park it next to the Citroen, would you? Everyone deserves to find their own happiness, even cars.”

Bernard was also familiar with _The Citroen_, though he wished that he wasn’t. The Citroen wasn’t a _car_. The Citroen was a C3 Pluriel that had been mistreated and beaten to a hairsbreadth away from being scrap metal. Why the young man who drove it kept the thing, when he regularly arrived in a Bughatti or a Lamborghini instead, was beyond comprehension. It must have some sentimental value to the kid.

Bernard just nodded and slipped past, with no intention whatsoever of parking _The Bentley_ next to that dented up bucket of bolts, whatever reason Mr. Crowley’s new husband had for suggesting such a sacrilegious notion.

-*-

Aziraphale and Crowley had scarcely stepped foot into the William Kent House’s well appointed grand hall, with its dramatic, gilded, wrought iron, Victorian staircase, when they were met by Warlock Dowling.

He stood before them, glaring from the height of a fully-grown man now, instead of with the ire of an eleven-year-old boy, but the look was heartbreakingly familiar and completely unmistakable. “Nanny Ashtoreth,” he said. “Brother Francis.”

“We’re so glad that you could make it,” Aziraphale said happily, while Crowley had been struck dumb beside him, just staring. “You’ve grown into such a fine young man.”

“I’m not the only one,” he said, looking pointedly at Crowley. “Changed a lot, _you said_. Won’t be exactly like I remembered, _you said_. Downplayed it a bit don’t you think?”

Aziraphale’s smile faltered under Warlock’s displeasure. “We weren’t quite sure how to explain everything in a letter.”

“You could have at least _tried_,” Warlock said. “You might have mentioned that the only reason you were even a part of my life was because you thought that I was the antichrist, and you were some kind of Christianic supernatural beings, and the moment that you realized I was just a normal kid, you ran out of there with your pointy tails on fire. I had to find out about all of it from some guy that I just met, who is apparently _sort of_ my brother, but also the _actual_ son of Satan.”

“I’ve never had a tail,” Aziraphale said.

Just as Crowley sniped, “Oh _fantastic,_ you’ve been talking to Adam.

“Not just Adam,” Warlock said. “I spent the ride over here getting hit on by Freddie _fucking _Mercury, while Jesus Christ turned my water into wine.”

“Crowley has a tail,” Aziraphale added, with his typical lack of care to the progression of the conversation. “When he’s a snake, I mean. He’s really _all _tail then, but I don’t think it’s ever been on fire.”

“Glad you cleared that up,” Warlock said. “Maybe you could explain why I haven’t seen either of you in the last twelve years?”

“We rather thought that we’d done enough damage already,” Aziraphale said, apologetically. “We didn’t exactly give you a normal upbringing.”

“And what about you, _Nanny_? Were you worried about my fragile child’s psyche?”

Crowley shrugged. “Hell stopped arranging your father’s appointments, and your family buggered off back to America. Besides, I thought it would be safer if you were off everyone’s radar.”

“I _needed_ you.” Warlock’s disapproving tone broke on the words.

Crowley’s voice softened into the voice of Nanny Ashtoreth. “I’m sorry, dear. I’ve missed you as well. I hadn’t realized how much.”

Warlock rushed him then, all at once, and pulled him into a tight embrace, burying his head against Crowley’s chest just as he had as a child. Crowley bent into the hug, letting his nose rest against the top of Warlock’s head. “There, there now, dear. None of that. What do I always say about tears?”

Warlock choked on a laugh. “You can’t expect anyone to bow at your feet if they catch you crying all the time.” He straightened up and rubbed at his eyes. “You know, my dad has it in his head that I’m going to run for the American presidency as soon as I’m old enough. I think he’s had it planned since I was born. I’d always thought that was what you were talking about. Imagine my surprise when I actually _met_ the President of the United States, when I was twelve, and no one was bowing at his feet. He didn’t have a throne made of the skulls of his enemies. He didn’t even have a sword. He was just my dad’s weird boss.”

“Do you want to be president?” Crowley asked. “We could make that happen. Fixing elections and successions is cake. How many have we done now, Aziraphale? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

“Oh, a score at least,” Aziraphale said. “_Mine_ were always for the betterment of mankind of course.”

“Oh, is that what you call that time in France? _The betterment of mankind_?”

“I told you, I had nothing whatsoever to do with that. And, _even if I had_, any side-effects would have been completely outside of my control.”

“That’s okay,” Warlock said. “I wouldn’t go into politics for all the corporate payouts in China—not that I’ll tell my dad that.”

-*-

Bernard fluffed the brakes as he pulled around the corner in the parking garage, about to pull _The Bentley_ into a reserved slot right at the front, with nice, open, buffer spaces on either side. When the brakes didn’t respond, he gave them a slightly more forceful push. When there was still no corresponding deceleration, he panicked and gave them a solid double-pump.

Instead of stopping, the engine revved a bit higher, and the steering wheel turned under his hands, of its own volition, as the car sped to the other side of the parking structure and came to a halt between a battered, silver, Citroen C3 Pluriel, and a Volkswagen Microbus.

Or, at least Bernard had thought it was a Pluriel, but his mind must have been playing tricks on him, because when he looked again it was a red, ’66 Mustang.

Already shaken, he was further distressed when The Bentley similarly refused to acknowledge any of his attempts to turn the engine off. Bernard began to imagine all of the horrendous acts that Mr. Crowley had threatened him with over the years, should anything happen to his precious car.

The Mustang’s radio suddenly started playing _Wild, Wild Mustang_—which really didn’t help with Bernard’s anxiety levels.

Then the Microbus chimed in with some Japanese poetry: "_Take a ride with me. __Pleasure you wouldn’t believe. __Machine of a dream."_

The Bentley’s stereo started then. This was an oddity in and of itself, since Bernard had never been able to figure out how to engage it, or where Mr. Crowley had hidden the speakers, despite the fact that he always had Queen blasting out loud enough to hear halfway down the street, when he pulled up.

The music selection was no different, nor was the volume. It blasted out the chorus of _Too Much Love Will Kill You._

_Too much love will kill you_

_If you can’t make up your mind_

_Torn between the lover _

_And the love you leave behind_

That was the point that Bernard decided that it was time to get out of the Bentley, whether the engine was still running or not.

As he slowly backed away, wondering why someone had stenciled ‘Dick Turpin’ across the back of the Microbus, it chimed out another haiku: "_Our Hearts sing as one. __The stud duck may have two mates. __Could not we be three?"_

The radio in the Mustang started playing some pop song that seemed to be more about sex than automobile racing, at the same time _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_ came out of The Bentley, and the Microbus started playing a Korean cover of _Baby, You Can Drive My Car._

_Beep beep, beep beep, yeah!_

Bernard decided, right then, that his retirement was long overdue. It was obvious that _The Bentley_ could look after itself.

-*-

After reconnoitering the first floor, and not finding any suitably secluded corners or cupboards, Adam had lured Oscar away from the others under the pretense of asking him about a painting upstairs. It was probably a flimsy excuse, as there was no way that he would have had the chance to see any of the paintings before, and couldn’t possibly have questions about them. Adam just assumed that everyone would see through it and know what they were up to anyway.

He didn't care. It was the pretense that mattered, not the believability of the excuse. That was just basic manners. When you were dragging your new, 19th century, playwright boyfriend off for a quickie in a cupboard, you made some vague excuse about oil paintings and Mona Lisa smiles. It was just the done thing.

There weren't any cupboards upstairs either, but being the Antichrist did have its perks, so Adam made them a cozy, little pocket universe in the shape of a walk-in cupboard with a sign on the door reading, ‘Restricted Access,’ and a comfortable chaise longue inside, and proceeded to demonstrate the comfort and versatility of elastic waistbands.

Crowley and Aziraphale had arrived by the time they reemerged and went downstairs, now looking as ruffled as either of the grooms, with smiles that were less subtle than Monsieur Da Vinci's masterpiece’s.

Adam took up his best man duties again as they proceeded with the scheduled celebrations and tucked into the twelve-course dinner that Aziraphale had arranged, in great detail, with the Ritz's head chef.

It was around the salad course that Adam's happy feeling started to melt away again, replaced by anxiety and uncertainty at the conversation that he needed to have with his father. He knew that it would be best to just get it over with and let the chips fall where they may, but he also dreaded what Lucifer would have to say on the matter of Oscar, and Adam wanted to draw out this moment of happiness as long as he could—which might only be a matter of about eight more hours, by his count.

At least Lucifer and God seemed to be getting along. His father had stopped shooting furtive looks at Her to see if She was watching him, and God had stopped aggressively _smiling_ at him.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying their meal. The food was every bit as good as you might expect, and the Ritz's chefs and staff had really pulled out all the stops for their favorite and oldest patrons. The wine and champagne were flowing freely. Everything was going better than any of them could have hoped for.

And then it was time for the speeches.

Yeshua was a little unsteady as he rose to his feet and raised his glass, calling for silence. “Hello everyone. I'm Yeshua, Crowley's best man.” He cleared his throat.

“I met Crowley for the first time, outside a tavern in Capernaum, a couple millennia ago. He was massively drunk, in the guise of a woman, and he'd just stolen a legionnaire’s helmet and was trying to hide it inside a wagon load of melons. I was… uh…” Yeshua cleared his throat again, shooting a furtive look at his parents. “_Out for a stroll, _and I happened to pass by, just as the owner of the cart of melons was stepping out of the tavern. I thought the wagoneer was going to horse whip this poor girl to within an inch of her life, so of course I intervened. I don't think I've ever given a better sermon about peace and forgiveness than I did that night.

“Now, I had no idea, at the time, that I was helping a demon while he was about his evil deeds, and undoubtedly Crowley could have handled the situation on his own, but I just saw a woman in need of assistance, and I wanted to help. Imagine my surprise, when all is said and done, when the woman in question, instead of thanking me for my help, thrusts the helmet into my hands and runs away, just as a very angry, very drunken, legionnaire steps out of the same tavern to see what all the ruckus was about—minus his helmet, of course.

Yeshua paused, looking thoughtful. “Okay, so maybe my sermon to the wagoneer was the _second best_ speech I ever made about peace and forgiveness.

“I ran into Crowley again a few years later, when I knew exactly who and _what _he was. I'd been warned that Hell would send its forces to tempt me, and I suppose Crowley tried, _in his way_. But, I was expecting some cruel and disgusting creature, crawled up from the depths, to offer me power, and corrupted pleasure. Instead, what I got was _Crowley_.”

Yeshua looked over at his friend. Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and shot a wary glance between Lucifer and Yeshua. Yeshua smirked, worryingly.

“I'm not sure that my first impression of Crowley was so far off. Instead of offering power, Crowley showed me the world. He tempted me with everything that I was giving up, and in the process showed me everything that I was sacrificing myself for. And, instead of some scheming demon, tempting me with evil, I spent three of the most enjoyable years of my life in the company of a demon who couldn't control his camel, was more interested in enjoying the fruits of humanity than poisoning the apples, and spent his evenings getting drunk and rambling about all of God's creatures and complaining about angels. In short, he was terrible at his job, and one of the best friends I ever had.”

Lucifer was giving Crowley an angry look now, while Crowley determinedly looked anywhere other than at his former boss.

“It wasn't until a few months ago that I realized that all of Crowley's complaints about angels were really about one angel in particular.” Yeshua turned his attention to Aziraphale. “Aziraphale, you are as little like what I have come to expect from angels, as Crowley is unlike what I might have expected from a demon. I don’t think I ever really understood Crowley until I saw the two of you together. You’re like two planks cut from the same tree, one stained dark, and one light, but you can’t appreciate the beauty of the grain, until you hold them side by side to see where they match.”

Yeshua raised his glass. “I wish you another six thousand years of love and companionship on this beautiful planet that you’ve made your home, and I’m honored to have laid witness to your _unconventional_ partnership.”

There was applause and the raising of glasses, as all assembled toasted the grooms, and Crowley looked relieved that Yeshua was finished speaking.

Adam took his turn to stand, and looked disbelievingly at Yeshua. “A _plank of wood_? _Really?_ That’s the best you could come up with? I have to say, Yeshua, not your finest parable. Though, I could see how you might mistake either of them for a plank of wood. Since, some days, I wonder which one has more brain cells.”

He turned to look at the grooms. “You two are two halves of a whole idiot, and I can’t imagine how either one of you would have turned out, without the other. You’re the two single most co-dependent people that I’ve ever met, and I cannot begin to express how _relieved_ I am that you’ve finally admitted it, _officially_, in front of everyone.

“I was eleven when I met both of you, and even at that tender age, with everything else going on, on the verge of bringing about Armageddon, I just assumed that you were already married.

“But, no. Six thousand years. Six _thousand_ years, you made him wait, Aziraphale.

“Crowley, you may have been a demon, but you have the patience of a saint, and, Aziraphale, with all the hours you clocked in on that temptation, my father should be giving you a commendation.

“_Six thousand years_!” Adam shook his head in disbelief. “But, here you are. I don’t know if you resigned, quit, or you were fired, but _whatever that was_, you did it in the most dramatic way possible, and here you are, free agents, on your own side, married with rings on your fingers, and Aziraphale even has a six pence in his glass slipper, so it may have taken _six thousand years,_ but you finally did it.

“And, I can see that Aziraphale is going to discorporate, if we don’t cut that gigantic, fancy cake pretty soon, so I’ll wrap this up.

“While we’re on the subject of bad parables, Yeshua. It may be easier for _Crowley_ to ride a camel through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, but Aziraphale would watch his bookshop burn to the ground, while Crowley destroyed his own Bentley, before either of them would ever give up on the other.”

Adam raised his glass. “So, here’s to six thousand years of not giving up, and the cake to prove it.”


	25. The Best Laid Plans of Demons and Angels

The cake was five tiers high, an elegant construction of lacey, white, buttercream frosting. The top tier had been made to look like the planet Earth, with the two figures atop, standing in a spot of green frosting shaped like Great Britain. Rather than the typical wedding garb, one of the figures wore a very familiar suit (purchased in 1839, from a decidedly disagreeable tailor) and the other wore tight black trousers, a tailored black jacket, and a thin scarf (stolen, at a party, from Mick Jagger, in 1972.) Both figures had black and white, alternating, feathers in their wings, and the little Crowley stood with his arms wrapped around the little Aziraphale, face buried into the fluffy, white curls atop his head.

None of the members of the wedding party had mentioned it, but every single one of them had had the same thought, upon seeing the cake topper: thank God they didn't recreate the “wrestling” statue.

A more accurate thought might have been: thank God that Crowley didn't think of that.

As it was, the cake was lovely, romantic, and the topper could be reasonably categorized as safe for work.

Crowley and Aziraphale stood before it, hands entwined over the handle of the cake knife, while the photographer snapped pictures of them.

“It's so lovely,” Aziraphale whispered. “I almost hate to cut it.”

“You can't eat it unless we cut it,” Crowley pointed out.

“You mean, you can't _watch_ me eat it.”

“You can hardly have one without the other.” Crowley applied a bit of pressure to the knife.

“Oh, we're just doing it then,” Aziraphale said in a slightly distressed tone, as the knife started to cut into the frosting at the bottommost tier of the cake.

“You can look away if it's too much for you, angel,” Crowley whispered into his ear in a low hiss.

Aziraphale didn't look away, as the blade cut first one slice into the perfect frosting, and then a second, removing a wedge of the cake to place it onto a ready plate.

“You are going to at least try it, aren't you dear?” Aziraphale asked.

“You know I don't care for sweets.”

“That isn't _entirely _true.”

“_Well.._” Crowley drew the word out reluctantly. “You taste it first then.” He took up a forkful of the cake, heavy with frosting, and held it out to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale licked his lips, and leaned in with anticipation.

Just as the morsel was about to reach his lips, the trajectory of the cake changed, and Crowley instead smeared it across the side of Aziraphale's mouth.

Aziraphale spluttered in shock, though he really should have been expecting it, but before he could say anything, Crowley was leaning in to kiss him, and flick his forked tongue out to taste the frosting.

“Delicious,” he said, in a sibilant hiss, as he pulled back.

Aziraphale looked at him with exasperated fondness, as he licked some of the remaining frosting from the corner of his mouth.

-*-

Their first dance was not a gavotte, nor was it a particularly well rehearsed waltz. Crowley’s continual insistence that he _knew how to dance_, coupled with a reticence to attend the dancing lessons that Aziraphale had insisted on, had resulted in one very abbreviated session with a ballroom dancing instructor that had started with an argument over who should lead, and ended with Aziraphale sporting bruised toes and the instructor having no memories of the last hour.

Crowley, wisely, let Aziraphale lead him around the dancefloor this time, and followed his steps, as the band played a rendition of _God Only Knows_ that was more David Bowie than The Beach Boys.

“Did you really have to pick this song?” Crowley asked.

“I thought you liked it.”

“I… never said that.”

“But you do.”

“Yeah, well… ‘S alright.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“_God only knows what I'd be without you? _Bit of a heavy-handed political statement, given present company, innit? Like to have them at each other's throats.”

“Going to dip you,” Aziraphale warned, as he was doing it.

“Gah,” Crowley complained, as he writhed like a Hognose snake playing dead, and struggled to keep his balance.

Aziraphale pulled him back up, a bit too forcefully, and Crowley was flung into his arms. They swayed a little as the final refrain of _God only knows what I'd be without you_, came gently from the singer on the stage, and Aziraphale kissed Crowley in the soft light of the dancefloor.

-*-

“Look how smug He looks,” Lucifer said. “As though all of this were _His_ idea.”

Azazel shrugged. “Maybe it was.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Yours,” Azazel said. “Always.”

-*-

“Lucifer is staring at You again,” Mariam observed.

“I know,” God said, unnecessarily.

“You should just go and talk to him.”

“He is perfectly capable of coming to talk to Me, if he decides that he has anything he wants to say.”

“But…,” Mariam hedged.

“I already know everything that he wants to say, but he can't possibly have any idea how I feel about it?”

“Well,… yes.”

“He is always welcome to ask.”

Mariam sighed.

-*-

Warlock had been sticking close to The Them since the start of dinner. As far as he could tell, they were the only other strictly non-supernatural guests at the wedding—unless you counted the children, or the two odd blokes who said they were retired members of The Witchfinder Army, (which had apparently been a successful line of work, as they had both married witches,) and Warlock wasn't sure that he did.

The Them seemed normal enough, despite being best friends with the Antichrist. Pepper and Wensleydale were both at university (gender studies, and engineering respectively,) and Brian had a hugely entertaining repertoire of stories from his various forays into alternative employment.

As the evening progressed, Warlock was glad that he'd drunk Jesus's wine. He was happily buzzed, feeling loose and relaxed, and he was really starting to enjoy himself. He'd made a few new friends, and watching Nanny and Brother Francis interact as themselves, though strange at first, was about the most adorable thing he'd ever seen. They were so obviously head-over-heels in love, and it made Warlock feel like there was hope for him too.

He surreptitiously glanced at Pepper, out of the corner of his eye, as the band’s singer invited everyone out onto the dancefloor. She was laughing at something Brian had just said, head tilted back, and her dark curls bouncing.

Warlock opened his mouth, about to ask if she wanted to dance, but he snapped it closed again, as she started to take requests for another round from the bar.

“Yeah,” Warlock said, both disappointed and relieved. “Make mine a double.”

-*-

“Care for a dance?” Oscar asked.

Adam grimaced. “Not just yet. I want to talk to my parents, before they actually see us together. Just… let me work up the courage.”

“You think they'll disapprove, then?”

“No, just…. Just give me a bit. The whole thing is… it's complicated. I'll… Just give me a bit.”

“A touch of Dutch courage, then?”

“Yes, please.”

Oscar brushed Adam's arm lightly as he left, and Adam watched him as he crossed the room toward the bar.

Five more minutes. He'd give himself five minutes, and a quick drink, and then he'd talk to Lucifer. There had to be something that he could do about Oscar, and if he couldn't, then Adam would go over his head. He didn't care what God had to say about humanity deciding on their own damnation. That was a load of rubbish. If his Grandmother could create the Heavens and the Earth, then She could give Oscar a fucking pardon.

But, Adam had a sneaking suspicion of just what She would demand as repayment for that sort of favor, and he wasn't going to walk into that conversation lightly. He'd do it, if he needed to, for Oscar. He'd mostly come to terms with the idea that, sooner or later, he'd be down in Hell, clocking in the overtime, but admitting it felt too much like giving in—too much like losing.

-*-

Crowley and Aziraphale had been joined by a few other couples on the dancefloor: Madame Tracy and a nonplussed Shadwell, Newton with Agnes, demanding to be spun and twirled around, God leading Miriam around, at an appropriately chaste distance (their son would have easily fit between them,) and Lucifer and Azazel, who didn't even leave room for a spare atom between them, and only avoided merging into one being by dint of opposing electromagnetic force of the electrons in their corporeal bodies and the basic rules of physics—which they would have chosen to ignore, if they had understood them.

Despite the awkwardness of their close proximity, Azazel followed Lucifer gracefully in this vertical representation of a horizontal desire.

She slid her leg up, over Lucifer's hip, as he dipped her back, and she caught sight of Adam, standing alone off to the side of the dancefloor.

Lucifer pulled her back up, and she pressed herself to him again, caressing the side of his neck and down the length of his arm with a graceful brush of her hand. His breath was hot in her ear, and she shivered with anticipated pleasure, even as her thoughts had changed focus to concern for her son.

“I wish Adam had found someone to dance with,” she said. “I really hoped that he would meet someone new at the wedding, but Crowley and Aziraphale really kept the guest list to the bare minimum, didn't they?”

“He's handsome enough, if he really wanted someone, he wouldn't be here alone,” Lucifer whispered into her ear, pausing to suck at her earlobe—not at all distracted by the plight of Adam's love life. “I expect he's still getting over Marcie, or Martha, or whatever her name is.”

“Well, that's an idea.” Azazel brightened. “Where did Pepper get off to?”

“What's an idea?” Lucifer asked, but Azazel was already pulling away from him.

-*-

“How have things been going with Adam?” Pepper asked, as she and Oscar both waited at the bar.

“In what regard?” Oscar asked, carefully blasé.

“In regard to the fact that you two are sneaking off upstairs together with stupid excuses, and coming back looking like you've just shagged in a cupboard.”

Oscar was taken aback by her bored tone and unabashed directness, and he faltered in his response. “The painting… I…”

Pepper turned to give him an unimpressed look, and Oscar straightened indignantly.

“I think that that is between the two of us.” Oscar said in lieu of the flimsy excuse that he'd failed to invent.

“Okay,” Pepper said. “Just, you know… I have a shovel, and you're already dead, so no jury in the world would be able to convict me.”

“Is that meant to be a threat, so I'll stay away from him? Because, I have to say, given the circumstances, you're not the one that I'm afraid of.”

Pepper sighed and gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “If you _hurt him_, you dolt. If you hurt him, no one will ever find the body. Geez, didn't they have the shovel talk when you were alive?”

“Ah,” Oscar cleared his throat. “I see.”

Pepper's demeanor had changed completely. She gave him a good-natured, pitying smile, and bumped her shoulder against his arm. “So, it's going well?”

“I suppose. He's working up the courage to discuss my situation with his father.”

Pepper sucked in a hiss of breath through her teeth. “That'll be interesting.”

The bartender came over with Pepper's drink order, and she struggled to pick up all four drinks. She'd been expecting Warlock to come along to help, when she'd offered to get them all another round. They had been flirting all through dinner, and she definitely wasn't imagining his interest. Boys could be so thick sometimes.

“Good luck,” she told Oscar, meaning it. It had been a long time since she'd seen Adam so happy. Sure, it was strange that he'd finally found that with _Oscar Wilde_ of all people, but it was also completely like Adam to flout all convention and rebound from his quite appropriate, pleasant, uncomplicated girlfriend, with similar academic and career goals, to a deceased, 18th Century, Irish writer, who had availability issues—primarily the fact that he was _dead_ and condemned to an eternity in Hell. But, Pepper wished them both the best of it, and Adam really did thrive on complications and adversity, so maybe it would all work out.

Speaking of which, Pepper had hardly taken two steps away from Oscar, when Azazel popped out in front of her, wearing a dress that would have looked more appropriate at a brothel than a wedding.

“Do you have Adam's keys?” she asked.

“Hello, Azazel. How are you? Nice dress. Don't think I've ever seen you rocking the feminine look before.”

“Yes, yes,” Azazel waved it off. “Hello, Pepper. _Keys_?”

“What do you want them for?”

“I'm doing a good deed.”

Pepper snorted. “I'll bet.”

“It's a wedding.” Azazel shrugged. “Besides, it's for Adam.”

Pepper raised an eyebrow, still skeptical. “And, does he know that you're stealing his car?”

“_Borrowing.”_

Pepper continued to look at her with her skeptical eyebrow.

“No,” Azazel admitted, “but, it wouldn't be a surprise, if I ask.”

“Well, I don't have them anyway—just the valet ticket. It's in my pocket, but my hands are a bit full at the moment. Why don't you help me carry-"

But, Pepper's suggestion to assist her with her burden of alcohol was cut off, as Azazel unceremoniously began to pat Pepper down and started sticking her hands into pockets.

“_Excuse me_!” Pepper snapped, affronted, nearly spilling the drinks. When Azazel still didn't stop her invasive search, Pepper growled, “the inside pocket of my waistcoat.”

Azazel stopped feeling her ass, and Pepper's face darkened with suppressed rage, as she instead slid a hand in, over Pepper's breast, to retrieve the paper slip from inside Pepper's waistcoat.

Azazel grinned, holding it up, completely oblivious to Pepper's indignation.

“You and I are going to have a long discussion about body autonomy and what sorts of things might be considered sexual assault.”

“Sure, thanks, Pepper,” Azazel said, and hurried off toward the exit on her ridiculously high heels.

Pepper closed her eyes and sighed. Explaining sexual harassment to an incubus, (or maybe, tonight, it was succubus,) would be like trying to explain color to someone who was blind from birth.

-*-

The archangel Gabriel ducked behind a pillar in the Grand Hall, just in time, as Lucifer's consort strode through the double doors leading into the ballroom.

“Get off me, you arszehole,” a familiar voice buzzed, as he encountered something soft and squishy.

He turned, blinking, and was met with the glowing, red eyes of a giant fly. He shifted his gaze downward to see instead the enraged, pixie face of his demonic counterpart. “Beelzebub,” he said, grinning. “What are you doing here?”

“The szame thing asz you, I imagine.”

Gabriel’s face fell, as he remembered his duty, and he straightened to his full height and smoothed the breast of his suit, putting on a look of professionally courteous disinterest. “Ah, yes. The time for glorious battle is upon us.”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes. “My forczes are prepared. If you're ready, we need only inform our masztersz that everything isz arranged, and I can finally do to you what I've been dreaming about for eternity.”

Gabriel smirked. “If I recall correctly, I was the one doing the pinning, the last time we wrestled.”

“It'sz going to be my blade in your crotczh, thisz time.”

Gabriel tilted his head to the side. “I think the throat would be more affective, but then I suppose you can't reach.”

Beelzebub buzzed out an amused laugh. “Of coursze it would.” They tipped Gabriel a sardonic salute before sauntering out from behind the pillar. “Szee you on the battlefield, Gabe. We'll just szee who comesz out on top thisz time. I think I've had a bit more practicze.”

Gabriel frowned after them, wondering what that was supposed to mean. He'd held the Heavenly Wrestling Championship title for the last several millennia. If Hell was holding their own competitions, then they should have been competing intermurally. Gabriel wouldn't have minded a chance to get Beelzebub on the mat again. The tiny demon had been savage, even as an angel. But, oh well, it was a moot point now. The end was finally here, and he'd have his chance to meet them on the battlefield before the night was over, in a more permanent test of skill.


	26. Do Often Go Awry

“You, there! Parking man!”

Bernard looked up from his seat at the valet station to see one of the most beautiful women that he’d ever laid eyes on. He hadn’t been in a stable state of mind, since parking The Bentley, and he’d been sitting there, wondering how much trouble he would get into, if he just walked off the job and went home for the night, but he plastered on a pleasant smile when he looked up at the waiting woman. It wasn’t hard; she really was a knockout—creamy breasts practically bursting out of the front of her dress, legs for days, and long, curly hair that shimmered in the lamplight and just begged you to run your hands through it. The horns poking out through the tresses were a bit odd, and her heels were strangely proportioned (there hardly seemed room for a human foot to fit inside,) but the black feathers in her wings looked soft. In any case, whatever her costume was meant to be, it wouldn’t be the strangest thing he’d seen all night.

“What can I help you with, Miss?” he asked.

She handed him her valet ticket. “I think I just give this to you? It’s my son’s car.”

She hardly looked old enough to have a son that was licensed to drive, but Bernard took the ticket, and punched the number into his tablet, to pull up the information on the car.

“Friend of Mr. Crowley’s, are you?” he asked, while he waited for the needlessly complicated contraption to pull up the information he needed. He remembered when he’d started working, and they’d made do just fine with a ledger book and a pen, but you couldn’t stop the wheels of progress. “Here for the wedding?”

“Yes, we used to work together,” she said.

“Really?” Bernard perked up. He’d always been curious about just what line of work Mr. Crowley was in.

Usually, you got a sense of a person from their car. You could tell an advertising executive from their Jaguar, a stock broker by their Lexus, and you could spot a yummy mummy, PTA member from her fully-loaded Chelsea tractor, with its glove compartment full of cosmetics and the boot full of football gear, from a mile away. But, Bernard had never been entirely sure what sort of man used a vintage, 1926 Bentley as his daily driver-- listening to Queen at full volume.

“Where is it you work?”

“Hell,” the woman said, without a pause.

Bernard laughed. “I hear that; don’t we all.” He appreciated the joke, but was disappointed that his curiosity remained unfulfilled. Still, it seemed rude to repeat the question. He looked down at the tablet again, and froze. “Level 6, section 6, row 6,” he muttered to himself, with a sinking feeling. “What kind of car did you say it was?”

The woman frowned. “I’m not sure, at the moment. I think it’s usually a silver convertible.”

“Not an old, Citroen C3 Pluriel?”

The woman shrugged.

Bernard reached for the keys under the desk with trembling fingers. He could feel all the blood draining from his face. “I’m terribly sorry, Ma’am, but we’ve ceased valet services for the night. The garage is just a short walk up the street.” He tried to keep his voice nonchalant and his hand steady, as he pointed, but couldn’t completely manage it. “If you just head that way, you’ll find it. Your car is on the sixth level, 6-6. I’m sure you’ll find it.” He laughed, uncomfortably, as he handed her the keys. “666. Should be easy to remember.”

The woman took the keys and looked despairingly down at her feet. “These heels are killing my hooves, but the dress really doesn’t work without them. Maybe I should have gone for the Armani suit instead. Ah, well,” she smiled at him. “Guess I’ll stretch my wings. Saves on the stairs anyway."-

“Yeah,” Bernard mumbled, and he took a step back as she crouched, revealing even more of her long legs and curved hips, and her wings beat the air three times, before she was taking flight, up into the darkening, night sky.

Bernard rubbed at his eyes and swore under his breath. He didn’t care if his boss liked it or not. That was the last straw. He was going home. To the devil with this nonsense.

-*-

Pepper cleared her throat for the second time, as Warlock still hadn’t noticed her standing next to him, holding out his drink. He seemed to be transfixed by Crowley and Aziraphale-- who had returned to the dessert table for seconds, and were currently ensconced by themselves at a corner table engaging in some kind of cake-related foreplay.

When Warlock still hadn’t noticed her, Pepper asked, “Did you want to be _alone_?”

Warlock jerked to attention, snapping his gaze away from the newlyweds. “Oh, Pepper. I… Thank you.” He took his drink and downed a large gulp, looking sheepish. “Sorry, I just can’t get over those two.” He waved in Aziraphale and Crowley’s general direction.

Pepper watched them for a moment with the same, faintly disgusted, gut-ache that she always got from the thought of rich desserts and anything else as saccharinely sweet as the display before her. “What about them?”

Warlock smiled. “They’re just so adorable. Don’t get me wrong, they were utterly ridiculous for each other when I was a kid, too, but to see them like this, not trying to hide it, it’s… nice. You know?”

“If you say so.”

He laughed. “I guess they’re always like that, huh? I can see how that would get old, after a while, but it is their wedding day; you have to cut them _some_ slack.”

Pepper rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “I suppose, just this once. They are kind of cute together.”

“Do you think that you’ll ever feel that way about anyone?”

Pepper tilted her head to the side, considering them. “I think that level of combined idiocy takes around six thousand years to simmer to a boil, but I’d like to think so.”

Warlock raised his glass to her, smiling. “I like to think so, too.”

They both drank to it.

He cleared his throat, not quite meeting her eyes. “Would you like to dance?”

“If it will keep you from standing here, gushing, like a fifteen-year-old girl.”

-*-

Azazel landed on the sixth floor of the parking garage, with skittering heels and frantic foreshortened wing beats to stop her forward momentum. Even so, she almost crashed into the Volkswagen bus.

She threw out a hand to brace herself against it, and felt the metal shudder beneath her hand.

Now that her hearing wasn’t being obscured by the noise of her flight, she registered the cacophony echoing off the concrete walls around her. It took her a moment to realize what she was seeing, but she had a professional eye for these sorts of things, and she could recognize a threesome when she saw one—regardless of the parties involved.

She watched for a while. It wasn’t just her usual professional curiosity for any and all things pornographic, but also a sense of wonder at the mechanics involved. It gave a new meaning to the terms master and slave cylinder, and lube job.

The Bentley seemed to be getting the best of it— full service, with a tyre rotation, getting a port and polish on both its intake and exhaust manifolds. While, the red cherry convertible, that was surely Adam’s car, had its top down and its headlamps out, and was getting rear-ended. The bus might not look like it could corner worth a damn, but it was handling the curves just fine. The whole thing made an incredible racket-- Freddie Mercury’s voice rising over it all in a crescendo, as the Volkswagen beeped away happily, and the red convertible broke into static.

When the slamming of pumping pistons and well-oiled machinery finally died away, Azazel cleared her throat.

“I hate to break up the party, but I need a ride.”

-*-

Oscar watched as Adam drained his tumbler the moment that Oscar handed it to him.

“Are you sure that you want to do this?” he asked. “I don’t expect-’

“Shut up,” Adam said, cutting him off. “I don’t care what you expect. You deserve better, and I’m going to make sure that you get it. This is about what’s right.”

Oscar nodded. “I don’t want to see anything bad happen to _you_ either. If you think that your father will-”

“I said, shut up.”

Oscar fell silent, and Adam took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“It’s going to be fine. My father isn’t going to do anything that I can’t handle, and I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

Oscar squeezed back. “Maybe we could just run away.”

“They’d find us. You can’t run from God, or the Devil, and besides, you’ve done enough hiding for a lifetime, I’m not letting you start the second one the same way.”

Oscar shook his head in disbelief. “You’re incredible. If I had half your confidence and determination, my life would have been completely different.”

“Too late for that,” Adam said. “Let’s worry about your afterlife instead.”

Oscar didn’t care who was watching; he kissed Adam anyway.

-*-

When Azazel had asked Pepper for Adam's keys, she hadn't really put much thought into how she was actually going to drive the car. She could handle a horse or camel just fine, but a well-trained beast of burden generally operated itself. You just had to tell it where to go, and it didn't have nearly as many buttons and levers.

It had taken a liberal application of demonic power to get the complicated contraption rolling, once she’d coaxed it away from its amorous companions, but Azazel was nothing if not adaptable. After a bit of fumbling, she seemed to have it all worked out well enough. One pedal made you go faster; one pedal made you stop, and you turned the wheel to point the thing wherever you wanted to go—easy as sinning. The other motorists would have probably preferred that she stayed in her own lane, and might have appreciated the occadional application of the turn indicator, but such niceties didn't really fit with the demonic persona. In any case, if they didn't have the good sense to get out of the way, Azazel would only be doing them the favor of strengthening the species through homicidal vehicular selection.

She didn't bother with navigation. She simply expected the car to take her to Marcia's flat in Oxford, so that's where they ended up.

She didn’t bother with the security buzzer at the door to the building either. She simply let herself in, made her way to Marcia’s second floor flat, and knocked on the door.

Azazel only had to wait for a moment, before a petite, confused looking, girl, with frizzy blonde hair, was standing before her—tightening her dressing gown, and blinking up at Azazel from behind horn-rimmed glasses.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Azazel looked her up and down. “We’ll have to do better than that, if you’re going to win him back.”

“Excuse me?”

“My son is all alone at a wedding, and I think it’s time that you and I had a chat.”

“_Your son_?”

“You aren’t very bright are you?” Azazel asked, pushing her way past Marcia and into the flat. “Not sure what he sees in you. Must be the dinosaur thing.”

“Excuse me!” Marcia shouted in indignation, hurrying after her, as Azazel searched through the flat to find the girl’s wardrobe. “Are you talking about Adam?”

“Of course I’m talking about Adam.” Azazel spun on her, threatening. “You haven’t been seeing anyone else, have you? You’d better not be stepping out on him.”

“Stepping out? We broke up, _months_ ago!”

“Well, I think it’s time we fixed that, don’t you?” Azazel turned back and started sifting through the girl’s hangers. “Is this all of your dresses? Don’t you have anything red?”

-*-

Lucifer pulled his attention away from where God was dancing with Mary, and his scowl melted away at the sight of his son.

“Where did Azazel go?” Adam asked, taking a seat across from Lucifer at the table

Lucifer gave him a fondly exasperated look. “I have no idea. She has a thorn in her hoof over something. Ran off on some emergent mission.”

“Right... Well, if it's a good time, there's something I want to talk to you about.”

He immediately gave Adam his full attention. Things had been, surprisingly, improved since the revelation that Azazel was Adam's mother. They'd all been trying a little harder to make things work, and if Adam felt comfortable enough to come to him with his problems, it was a huge step forward in their relationship.

Lucifer was more than ready to start dishing out some fatherly advice, and he was even prepared to handle the subject of the giant lizards with a bit more tact, if it came up.

“What is it?” he asked, with careful nonchalance.

Adam took a deep breath, and said, “Oscar.”

“Wilde?” Lucifer turned in his chair to find the reincorporated soul, and spotted him near the bar, watching their conversation. Lucifer sighed. He probably should have expected this. Adam had a soft heart and a stubborn streak like tempered steel. “I understand if you feel pity for him, Adam, but if you're trying to extend his stay on Earth, it's out of my hands. As soon as this party ends, his furlough expires, that little golden ticket disappears, and he's back in Hell. He doesn't belong here.”

Adam's carefully composed expression fell. “I love him,” he said, voice gone harsh.

Lucifer turned in his seat again to look at Wilde. The man had taken two steps forward, but froze as he met Lucifer's gaze. Lucifer frowned and turned back to his son.

_Love_. This was what love bought you. The look of pain in his son's eyes, as he held up a hand to hold Wilde off a moment longer, was all the testament Lucifer needed on the subject. He didn't know what to say, and he suddenly felt completely out of his depth. He wished Azazel was here.

He extended a hand, tentatively, rested it over Adam's on the table, and waited to recapture his son’s attention. When Adam let his other hand fall and looked back to him, the pained look was gone, replaced with a familiar defiance.

“Wilde lived his life,” Lucifer said, as gently as he could manage. “He's had a chance that almost no mortal ever gets, to walk the Earth again, if only for a week, but that's it. I'm sorry if you've become attached, but he can't stay here.”

“What about a pardon?” Adam asked. “I can't see him go back to Hell; I just can't. He doesn't deserve it.”

Lucifer shook his head. “That isn't for me to decide either.”

“I could talk to Grandma.”

Lucifer winced. “You could, but God already knows everything you're thinking, and everything you want to say. If He wanted to help, He would have done it already.”

Adam turned now, to find Her, and Lucifer followed his gaze to see God watching them with mild curiosity.

“Fuck Her, then,” Adam growled, and turned back to his father. “There has to be something that you can do?”

“Even if I _could_ pardon him, send him to Heaven instead, that would mean that you'd never see him again. If you really love him so much, isn't it better that he's down in Hell?” Lucifer suggested.

“Better that _someone I love_ experience an eternity of torment, than never see him again?”

Lucifer winced. He fell quiet for a moment, before he said “There… _could be_ a way around that, but you're not going to like it.”

“What do you mean?”

He searched his son's hopeful face, and remembered all of the conversations he'd had with Azazel about not trying to push him, not trying to manipulate him into anything. _He's too much like you for that. He won't fall for it, and he'll just end up resenting you even more_.

But, was it really manipulating him, if Lucifer just presented him with all of his options? It was up to Adam to decide what he wanted to do.

“I can't release Oscar Wilde from Hell, but it wouldn't _necessarily_ have to be eternal torment for him, unless he breaks your heart, and you want to punish him, of course.”

Adam narrowed his eyes, suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“You're a prince of Hell, Adam. If you have any interest in learning what that entails, in taking up your responsibilities, there's a great deal of power you can wield over its denizens.”

Adam's frown deepened.

Lucifer removed his hand from Adam's and leaned back in his chair, observing his son critically. “You’ve already created your own pocket of torment. You've been overseeing the punishment of Hastur for months now. If you were inclined to take up your duties, as my heir, you could oversee the torment of whatever souls you choose.”

“So, instead of standing by to let someone else torture Oscar, I'd have to do it myself?”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “In _whatever manner_ you choose. As long as your paperwork is all in order, you can get away with fudging the numbers a bit. Certain things that might be considered torture in _other circumstances_… Your mother can be quite inventive, if you need tips.”

Adam's jaw fell, and he stared at Lucifer with wide, horrified eyes.

Lucifer waved it away. “I'm sure you get the idea. As long as Dagon gets all the paperwork filed, it really doesn't matter what goes on in your own circle. The only one with higher authority than _you_ is me, and I'm willing to cast a blind eye. As long as it doesn’t get too out of hand.”

Lucifer waited, watching the complicated series of emotions play over Adam's face. “So you get what _you_ want, and Grandma gets what _She_ wants, and I'm down in Hell where I belong?”

“I told you that you weren't going to like it. The choice is entirely yours.”

“_Choice_,” Adam spat. “Of course it is. Free will at its finest.”

Lucifer shrugged. “It's the best I can do.”

Adam stood up from the table, eyes shut tight, hands pressed hard to the tabletop, and let out a heavy breath. “This isn't fair.”

Lucifer snorted. “Don't talk to me about fair. I've been condemned to an eternity of torment, _as the tormentor_, for the sin of asking the wrong questions. More than that, I think it was just because the _Great and Terrible God_ needed a scapegoat. At least you _have_ a choice, even if it isn't much of one. Take it up with Him, if you don't like it. I'm sure He'll be reasonable_. _I mean, why break the habit of an eternity now? But, you never know.”

Adam opened his eyes then, cold and hurt, and Lucifer could sympathize, he really could.

“Damn you,” Adam said.

“Too late for that, I'm afraid.”

“My lord?” came a questioning voice from his shoulder, and he turned to see Beelzebub, buzzing with uncertainty, and dressed in their formal regalia.

“What are you doing here, Beelzebub?” Lucifer asked, visions of upheaval in Hell suddenly taking over his thoughts. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. Everything is ready, my lord. We only await your command.”

“Everything is ready for what?”

“Our gloriousz revolution, of coursze.”

Adam scoffed. “I can see you’re busy.”

“No, Adam. Wait!” Lucifer called after him, but he was already gone. He sighed. “I think that I handled that poorly,” he grumbled.

“Hardly mattersz now,” Beelzebub said.

-*-

“Gabriel!” Mariam said in surprise, as God twirled her around on the dance floor, and she came face to face with the archangel.

“Hello, Mary,” Gabriel said, flashing her a bright, even smile. “You look lovely tonight. I’ve always thought that color suited you.” He turned to God and bowed. “My Lord, if you have a moment, everything is prepared, and I think we should discuss tactics.”

God gave him a soft smile. “Gabriel, My sweet, idiot, child. I’ve been waiting for you. I think it’s time that we had a discussion about just how far it’s safe to take _personal initiative_.”


	27. I Feel Like Dancing

“Tell me, Lord Beelzebub. Do you understand the meaning of the word truce?” Lucifer asked.

“I had asszumed that wasz a rusze,”

“And what part of, ‘I'm going to a wedding. Handle things while I'm away,’ seemed like it was code for, ‘Mass my armies. We're going to war,’?”

“The part where you szaid that God was attending.”

“Fair point.” Lucifer tipped his glass to them. “However, while I appreciate the initiative, I made a promise to Adam that I wouldn't start anything. I am _actually _only here to attend a wedding.”

“I szee,” Beelzebub buzzed thoughtfully. “Would it interszt you to know that the Archangel Gabriel hasz masszed the Heavenly Hoszt, and isz currently seeking further ordersz from the Almighty.”

Lucifer's gaze snapped up, over Beelzebub's epauletted shoulder, to lock onto where he'd last seen God. The Almighty was, indeed, in the midst of a serious discussion with The Archangel Gabriel. “That isz interesting,” he said, unable to help the mocking, buzzed ‘S’ that crept into his speech whenever he talked to Beelzebub for too long.

They at least pretended not to notice.

“Szo, if The Hoszt were to make the firszt move…”

“I wouldn't be starting anything,” Lucifer concluded.

“Exzactly.”

“Devious,” Lucifer complimented, “but I don't think Adam would appreciate the technicality. And, besides, it looks like your violet-eyed boy is getting a good bollocking from his boss.”

Beelzebub spun in their seat to look. They turned back, after a moment, scowling, and crossed their arms over their chest, slumping in their seat. “He'd need ballsz for that,” they grumbled.

-*-

“You might have thought that you were doing the right thing, but in the future, I would prefer for you to wait for direct orders _before_ you decide to take it into your own hands to destroy My creations.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Gabriel said, eyes downcast.

“Are you just angry that you didn’t get invited to the wedding?” God asked, not because She didn’t know the answer, but because the expression on Gabriel’s face was priceless.

“The wedding? Why in _Your_ name would I want to come to this stupid wedding?”

“It’s understandable,” God said. “You were Aziraphale’s supervisor for a very long time. It’s only natural if you’re feeling left out.”

“_Left out_?”

“You’re here now. I’m sure that they wouldn’t mind if you stayed to enjoy yourself. Why don’t you ask someone to dance? I noticed that Lord Beelzebub is here.” She smiled at him encouragingly.

Gabriel’s face darkened to a deep red.

-*-

Adam thumped into the bar next to Oscar and slammed his fist against the bartop.

“What's wrong, Adam? What did he say?”

Adam ignored him for long enough to order another drink, and then turned to Oscar, face serious.

“Do you love me?” he asked.

“I,” Oscar floundered, off guard for a moment. “I…” He took a breath, and the words came, quiet and sincere, as he felt his reincorporated heart thud in his chest. “_Yes_. Yes, I do.”

“Good,” Adam said, nodding. The bartender set his drink down, and Adam drained it. “I love you to, for what it's worth.”

“It's worth a great deal, _to me_,” Oscar said, the uncertainty creeping in and solidifying to dread. “What's wrong? What did he say? If I… If it's that I have to go back… I'll manage. I'm grateful to you for trying.”

Oscar felt his human body betray him. His legs went cold. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. Reality set back in, and his mind was filled with 47, 808 days of torment—the fear, the pain, the utter hopelessness. The idea of going back to an eternity of that blackness and despair, after a week of brightness, and life, and hope, momentarily crippled his fragile mortal coil.

But, suddenly Adam was there, gripping his shoulders, and staring into his face with urgent blue eyes. “Oscar,” came his name from the lips of his brilliant, compassionate, Antichrist. “Oscar?”

“Yes, I…" He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. It just all hit me for a moment.”

“Do you _love me_?” Adam asked again.

“Yes. I said that I did. Very much, I think.”

“And do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Completely?”

“Adam, what is this about?”

Adam didn't wait for the bartender this time. He waved a hand over his glass and conjured himself a refill from thin air. He didn't drink it, just stared at it, frowning, and ran his finger around the rim of the glass. “If I do what I'm considering,” he said. “You'd be completely under my power, bound to me for eternity. We've… we've only known each other for a week, but I feel…” Adam took a drink then, just a sip, and set the glass back down. He turned back to Oscar, searching his eyes. “I love you. I don't know if it's the kind of love that lasts six thousand years, and turns you both into a pair of idiots sharing one brain cell, or if it's the kind of love that makes you do stupid things in the heat of the moment, and you end up regretting the whole experience a month later-- left wondering how you could have possibly been such a complete fool. But, I do love you. I went to my father, prepared to do whatever I had to, to keep you safe.”

“What did he ask you to do?”

“Take up my place in Hell. Rule beside him. Create my own Circle in the pits, so that I can keep _you_ in it.”

Oscar's breath caught in his throat.

Adam turned back to his glass.

“It wouldn't be torture for you. It would be eternity, but it wouldn't be torture.” Adam swallowed. “At least not at first, but I think… I think eternity could turn into torment all on its own, if you let it.”

“It would be a commitment,” Oscar said. “More than a marriage.”

Adam snorted. “Not much of a choice, for you, is it? An eternity of pain and torment, or an eternity with _me_? It's not hard to pick, but it isn't exactly the best basis for a relationship, and I'd have all the power. We couldn't even have a proper argument; you'd be too worried that disagreeing with me would put you back in general population.”

“What about you?” Oscar asked. “You have a life here. I wouldn't ask you to give that up, for me.”

Adam smiled. “No, you wouldn't, and that's exactly why I would do it. I just see how easily it could all go bad.”

They both fell silent, and Oscar thought of Bosie-- how gloriously happy they had been in the beginning, and how cold and rancid that happiness had turned by the end. The casual cruelties. The selfish dismissals. Dying, wretched and lonely, staring at the ugliest wallpaper in all of Christendom.

“The simple fact that you're worried over the equality of the proposed arrangement, gives me some hope that we could make it work. Maybe it is the kind of love that ends like _that_.” He gestured over to Crowley and Aziraphale, who'd turned their table into a couch and were sprawled out over each other, drinking wine, and giggling into their glasses, completely oblivious to everything going on around them.

Adam snorted and rolled his eyes. “I bet you, in ten minutes, they'll have forgotten where they are, and started shagging.”

Oscar laughed. “No wager. As much as I'm enjoying my previous forfeit, there is pride to be taken into consideration.”

Oscar pulled Adam close and ran a hand through his golden curls. “What are you going to do?”

Adam sighed, leaning in to the touch. “I suppose I'll have to separate them with a garden hose, after all.”

“I meant about Hell.”

“I know what you meant. I'm going to have to talk to Grandma, just to clarify a few points, but fuck it. Let's give it a go. I'm hellbound either way. I might as well try to find a reason to be happy about it.” Adam tilted his head up to meet Oscar's eyes. “I want you to make me a promise, though.”

“Anything.”

“Forget that I'm the Antichrist. To you, I'm just Adam. I might have all the power, but that doesn't mean I'm going to use it. Don't be a doormat. If I'm being an arsehole, tell me I'm being an arsehole. We'll figure out all the details as we go along. I'll make you a pocket dimension, where I can't go, or something; we'll figure it out. Just, checks and balances, okay? I might be losing the fight against enforced destiny, but I'm not giving up who I am along the way.”

Oscar smiled, and kissed the top of his head. “I'm not sure that's possible. And yes, I promise.”

“Good. That's settled then. Now, dance with me. Let’s give everyone something to gossip about.”

“I'd love to.”

-*-

“Rio De Janeiro,” Aziraphale guessed.

“No,” Crowley said, grinning. “Drink.”

Aziraphale obediently took a sip from his wine glass. “I don’t think this game is entirely fair.”

“My turn,” Crowley said. “The Importance of Being Earnest.”

“If you’re just going to keep guessing all of Oscar’s works…”

“Well?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale took another drink of his wine. “There are far more places that you could have picked for our Honeymoon, than books I might have packed,” he grumbled.

Crowley snorted in disbelief. “You’re seriously suggesting that there are more holiday destinations than there are books written, _in the_ _history of the Earth_?”

“Athens,” Aziraphale guessed.

“Only if you’ll wear a toga,” Crowley said, smirking.

Aziraphale scowled at him as he drank again. “There might be more books available to choose from, but we’re only going to one holiday destination, while I’ve packed multiple books.”

“It’s our honeymoon,” Crowley said. “Why did you pack _any _books?”

“For when I want to read, obviously.”

“_Obviously_,” Crowley mocked. “I don’t plan to give you any _time to read_, angel. The Portrait of Dorian Gray.”

Aziraphale stared at him, defiantly. “No.”

“You’re lying,” Crowley accused.

Aziraphale smirked. “I can say, _with complete honesty_, that I did not pack any book with the title _The Portrait of Dorian Gray_.”

Crowley watched him suspiciously, over the rim of his glass, as he drank.

“Pluto?” Aziraphale asked.

“Bit cold this time of year.”

Aziraphale drank. “Do you suppose that we should mingle a bit, or dance some more. I feel as though we’re being terribly rude, just sitting here, drinking, after we’ve invited everyone.”

Crowley groaned. “Mercy, angel. No more dancing.”

“But I thought you were an _excellent dancer_?” Aziraphale teased.

“It isn’t dancing if you have to count. If you have to count, it’s maths.”

“We could try it your way, if you like. Have the band play a bit of bebop. We could get jiggy with it.”

“_Get jiggy with it_?”

“Get our groove on. Shake our tail feathers. Boogie,” Aziraphale suggested.

“Stop,” Crowley begged. “Anyway, it’s looking pretty crowded out there,” Crowley said, looking for any excuse to avoid the contact embarrassment of Aziraphale trying to _get his groove on_.

“It’s supposed to be. Everyone is having a good time,” Aziraphale said. “Look, even Adam is dancing. Oscar was always an excellent partner.”

“Seems like he’s a pretty good kisser, too,” Crowley said, as the song ended, and the dancing turned into snogging.

“I…Well… I…” Aziraphale gaped, flushing. “That’s entirely unexpected.”

Crowley snorted. “You should have heard them on the phone last night.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sounded like old Oscar’s good at a few other things, too.”

“I _certainly _wouldn’t know anything about _that."_

“Of course not,” Crowley said, “But apparently, there’s a painting upstairs that you have to see to believe.”

“What?”

“Oscar and Adam keep going upstairs to _look at a painting_.”

“What is it a painting of?” Aziraphale asked.

“It isn’t an _actual _painting. The second floor isn’t full of pictures of… Hang on. Picture!”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s The _Picture_ of Dorian Gray! Drink, you semantic bastard!”

Aziraphale scowled as he took a long drink from his wine. “That isn’t a very nice thing to call your husband.”

Crowley kissed him. “Should it be _my _semantic bastard, then? My deepest apologies. If you want to go upstairs, there’s a painting I could show you, to make amends.”

“What’s so special about this painting?”

“Let’s go engage in some _art appreciation, _and I’ll show you.”

-*-

“I’m not putting that on,” Marcia said, looking at the slinky, red dress in disdain. “I didn’t even know that I owned that.”

“You didn’t,” Azazel said. “I had to get creative.”

“I don’t know who you are. I’ve met Adam’s mum, and you definitely aren’t Deidre Young.”

“I’m his birth mother. I believe that he already tried to explain all of this to you. Now, please, put the dress on. This is taking much too long already. It took twenty minutes just to get the car. Who knew automobiles had such stamina.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The dress, dear, and I’ll see what I can do about these horrible shoes.”

Marcia crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not going anywhere with you, and if you don’t get out of my flat, right now, I’m calling the police.”

“Don’t be so overdramatic.”

“_Overdramatic_,” Marcia sputtered.

“Please, put the dress on. Adam is waiting.”

“I broke up with Adam months ago!”

“And why was that?” Azazel asked.

“He was cheating on me.”

“That doesn’t sound like him at all. Who was he cheating on you with?”

“I don’t know. Some guy. He lied and said he was visiting his parents, but he was out with some guy.”

Azazel sighed. “I’m going to ruin this dress,” she muttered, but she shifted into male form anyway_. The things a mother had to do for her child._

“This guy?” he asked, voice noticeably deeper, and chest no longer filling out the front of his dress. “Nice to meet you, Marcia. My name is Azazel. I’m Adam’s mum. Now, if you’d care to put on this dress, we can get back to the party. Lucifer is waiting for me.”

Marcia put on the dress.


	28. Heaven and Hell both Reside in the Details

Marcia had been planning to attend the Paleontology Department’s annual Halloween mixer that night. She had her costume all ready—a not particularly sexy, pachycephalosaurus, complete with tail, beak, and domed skull cap. She had just gotten out of the shower, and had been about to get dressed, when the night had suddenly taken this abrupt and sudden detour from normality.

Now, instead of her painstakingly designed dinosaur costume, she was wearing a skimpy, red dress (definitely fitting into the sexy-(fill in the blank) genre of Halloween costume choices, even if she wasn’t sure what the blank was supposed to be, and she felt more uncomfortable than sexy. Azazel’s blank seemed to have been filled with some member of the bovidea family.

She hunched in around herself further, trying to cover her mostly exposed chest, and cast a sidelong look at her abductor. If she didn’t know better, she might have thought that Adam’s mum was some kind of demon.

_It’s just a costume, Marcia_, she told herself. _Some decent special effects makeup, and well-employed misdirection—nothing that an illusionist with a bit of imagination wouldn’t be able to manage._

_Oh yeah? Why did you put the dress on then? _Her own thoughts rebelled against her, and she shivered.

The car swerved across three lanes of traffic and sped through an intersection, ignoring the red traffic signal, and nearly colliding with another car. _Guess I know where Adam learned to drive, _she thought, and on its heels_, am I really going to believe that this maniac is Adam’s mum?_

It seemed that she was, because before she knew it, she was asking, “So, you gave Adam up for adoption? Did you have him very young?” That had to be it. Azazel hadn’t looked much over thirty before whatever trickery had been used to change her from her female appearance, to this male one, and she didn’t look any older as a man than he had as a woman—Marcia’s brain stuttered over the appropriate use of pronouns in this situation.

“Gave up isn’t exactly the way I would put it,” Azazel said, “and not young by your standards.”

Marcia was uncertain what her standards were supposed to be. The lizard part of her brain was curled into a ball, gibbering to itself, while the rational, critical thinking part was stubbornly pretending that everything was normal.

“I’ve met the Youngs,” she said. “I’m sure that must be a very difficult decision to make, but he couldn’t have been placed with a nicer family.”

“_Nice_ wasn’t really what we were going for, but I guess it worked out,” Azazel grumbled. “You should know that Adam isn’t expecting you.”

“It will be a nice surprise for him then,” she said, forcing her tone to stay even and pleasant. Really, it was something of a relief, and she was looking forward to seeing him. She was ready for an explanation, and Adam would sort everything out. He was a good guy, mostly, if a little strange. They’d gotten on well when they had been together. He really hadn’t seemed the type to send a lunatic out to kidnap his ex-girlfriend. But, then, you could never quite tell how a guy would react to a break-up. You had to be careful.

_Careful? Like when you got into a car with a complete stranger, after they broke into your flat, and dressed you in lingere?_

Marcia swallowed hard, and focused her eyes firmly on the road, trying to pretend that what she saw before her was a perfectly normal scene of perfectly normal traffic going by, and not something out of a safety video from a driver’s training course about reckless driving—the kind that ended with a crash, some sad music, and white letters on a black screen with a message like, ‘She was only nineteen,’ or, ‘One bad decision ended the lives of three people that night.’

But, somehow, Marcia didn’t think that the drunk drivers in those videos could make the other vehicles on the road disappear from right in front of them and reappear, safely out of harm’s way, the way that Azazel seemed to be able to.

The rational part of her brain was considering joining the lizard to help in the gibbering department.

-*-

“No war,” Beelzebub said to their drink, as Gabriel took a seat beside them at the bar.

“Should have suspected something,” he agreed. “We're short three horsemen. You can't have a war without War.”

Beelzebub turned an unimpressed glare on him. “That’sz clever. Did you think of that all by yourszelf?”

Gabriel bristled. “What do we do now?”

“Drink,” Beelzebub said, demonstrating.

Gabriel held a finger up to the barman to catch his attention. “Vodka martini.”

Beelzebub raised a brow at him. “What happened to not szullying your czelesztial temple?”

“God says it's a party, and I should _take a night off_.” Gabriel’s lips twisted in distaste.

“Oh, _really_,” Beelzebub said, with a suddenly predatory tone. They reached out to pluck the olive from Gabriel's recently arrived martini, and popped it into their mouth. “I could help you with that.”

-*-

“What are you looking for?” Aziraphale asked. “All the paintings are over here.”

“I’m looking for the cupboard,” Crowley answered, though it was obvious that there wasn’t one. They’d been through all the rooms up here already.

“What cupboard?”

“The one we’re going to go into, so I can teach you the meaning of the term _seven minutes in Heaven_.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, cheeks flushing, and eyes going dark. “I’ve actually… encountered that term before, as it happens.” He laughed. “There was a bit of miscommunication when I was filling in on one of your temptations, and I thought that I was accompanying a young lady to confession.”

Crowley gave up his search and turned on Aziraphale. “You… you, _what_?”

“It came as quite the shock when I discovered what she truly intended, but,” he gave a little wiggle, “_temptation accomplished_.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, and looked suspiciously at Aziraphale’s crotch. “How, _exactly_, was that temptation _accomplished_? Snogging isn’t really considered a carnal sin, and you said that you never bothered with the _requisite _equipment, because it _ruined the line of your trousers_. How is it that you were out tempting young women into lustful cupboard encounters? And, _more importantly_, angel, how exactly were you going to do that in a confessional booth?”

“Well,” Aziraphale hedged. “Just because _I_ didn’t have the requisite equipment…” he trailed off. “Besides, I’d hardly have been doing a very good job at being a demon, if I let her go to confession on her own. I’d been intending to subvert the proceedings—work my wiles on her.

“Your _wiles_,” Crowley repeated.

“Well, I got the job done,” Aziraphale protested.

“I’m sure you did.”

“It isn’t entirely to my taste, if I’m honest,” Aziraphale admitted. “Though, I’d be open to giving it another go, if you decide that you want to start favoring frocks again. I suspect it might be different, if it wasn’t, you know… _for work_. I mean, it wasn’t meant to be, strictly speaking, _my _work, but if it hadn’t been me doing it, it would have been you. So, it really doesn’t matter _whose_ work it was. Really, it seemed the quickest way to accomplish the job and get back to my bookstore, and I suppose it’s like the old adage, it’s a dirty job, but-”

“Angel?”

“Hmm?”

“Shut up.”

Aziraphale fluffed his wings indignantly, but then he saw the look on Crowley’s face. “I’m sorry. Does that bother you?”

“Does it bother me that you were out performing cunnilingus in cupboards, and letting me file it as a standard temptation on my paperwork?”

“It was only a few times,” Aziraphale defended.

“_A few times_? This happened _more than once_?”

“Only once in the cupboard, and it wasn’t always cunnilingus. Sometimes, it was fellatio, depending on the parts involved. Like I said, in certain situations, it was simply the most expedient way to get the whole thing over with. ”

“_Expedient_?”

“I had other things to do.”

“Things besides blowing people in cupboards?”

“I told you, it was only the one time in the cupboard.”

“The _location_ isn’t the point. It’s the act that I’m concerned about. I thought you were suspiciously good at sucking cock, but I just figured it was all the practice you had making obscene sounds over your dessert.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Oh, _please_. It isn’t as though you’d never done it before we decided to add a physical aspect to our relationship.”

“That isn’t the point.”

Aziraphale raised a brow then. “What is?”

“How long was this going on? If I’d had any idea that you were _available for cunnilingus_…”

“I told you that I didn’t enjoy it. It was just work. I suppose, I might have… if you’d asked, I mean—a favor for a friend.”

“Well, of course you didn't enjoy it. You would have needed a cock, to give you some incentive, or at least some emotional involvement, and what do you mean, _favor for a friend?_” Crowley hissed. “You’re so… so… I don’t even know. So,.. something. A bloody, aggravating angel.”

“Not an angel anymore,” Aziraphale reminded him, gently. “If you feel like putting on a wedding dress for a bit, or taking it off, we could try it with the proper incentive and emotional involvement.”

Crowley blinked at him, irritation instantly gone, and the basis of his argument dissipating into thin air—replaced with an image of the way Aziraphale had of sucking at the top of his ice cream cone.

They stopped looking for the cupboard. The middle of the floor seemed like the most expedient option, under the circumstances.

-*-

Lucifer was bored. Azazel was off doing… well, God probably knew what, but he sure as Hell didn't. Beelzebub had sulked off somewhere. Adam was making a display out on the dancefloor with Oscar Wilde—whether to make some unknown point to Lucifer, or because he really was just that far gone in love with the man, he didn't know.

He scanned the room to find someone else to talk to, but it was potentially hostile elements all around. He wouldn't have minded a chance to talk to Warlock Dowling for a moment, find out what had become of his would've-been son, but the kid was all over Adam's little friend, Pepper. Public displays of affection, or perhaps lust, seemed to be something that they both had in common, at the very least. There was always, Death, he supposed, but Charron could be such a cunt, and he was at a table with Jesus and that singer that Azazel had been going on about-- Frankie Neptune, or Phil Uranus, or whatever. Lucifer could feel the IQ dropping in the conversation, from here.

The band started up with _Hallelujah_, and Lucifer groaned.

Enough was enough.

_There was a time, when you let me know, what’s really going on below, but now you never show that to me, do ya?_

Lucifer got up from the table, downed the remaining scotch from his glass, and strode up toward the source of his irritation. “I think that’s enough of _that_,” he shouted, as he hopped up onto the stage, and the band cut off in the middle of the song.

“Excuse me?” the singer asked, irritated.

Lucifer waved a hand at him. “Why don’t you take a break for a while?”

The singer abruptly sat down on the edge of the stage and looked dazed.

The other wedding guests, no longer dancing, all stared up at him. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve had all the maudlin love songs about faith that I can handle for one night.” He flicked his arm out and an electric violin fell into place. He flipped it up with an extravagant flourish and cradled it to his shoulder. “I’m happy to provide an alternative. How about I play something that you can actually _dance_ to? But first, please allow me to introduce myself.”

The band struck up with _Sympathy for the Devil_, without knowing that they were about to do so, and despite never having rehearsed the song, and Lucifer alternated between singing the lyrics and playing the more interesting bits on his electric violin.

The couples slowly moved off of the dance floor, but they remained at the edges, and were mostly enjoying the show anyway—especially God, for some ineffable reason.

Adam watched his father with amusement, but no surprise whatsoever, leaning back into Oscar, head rested on his shoulder.

Lucifer was just getting to, “As heads is tails, just call me Lucifer, 'cause I'm in need of some restraint,” when Azazel and Marcia showed up.

Adam turned his head to find the source of the resulting catcall, directed at Lucifer, and met eyes with his ex-girlfriend.

“_Marcia?_”

“Adam!” she yelled over an impromptu violin solo. “What _the Hell_ is going on?”

That’s what Adam would like to know, as well, and he was pretty sure that Hell was exactly the right place to start his inquiries. He looked to his mother and tried to decide which side of the edge between exasperation and rage his reaction should fall on with this new fuckery. The beaming smile he received in return tilted him toward exasperation.

He saw the exact moment when Azazel registered the fact that Adam was resting in the circle of Oscar’s arms and didn’t look at all pleased to see Marcia, as the smile fell, and Azazel lifted a hand to his mouth. Adam gave him a disapproving look in return, and turned to face Oscar.

“Looks like I’ll have to sort this out,” he said, into Oscar’s ear, to be heard over the music. “Might take a while.”

“Who is that?” Oscar asked.

“My ex, and she’s an atheist, so this is going to be an interesting conversation.” Adam kissed Oscar’s cheek, and gave his hand a squeeze, before extricating himself to go over to Azazel and Marcia.

“Could you wait out in the hall for a minute?” he asked her. “I’ll explain everything and get you a cab home. I just want a minute to talk to _my mother_.” He growled out the familial title, as he gave Azazel a glare.

“Yeah, I think I’d like to hear that,” Marcia said, casting one look back at Azazel, as she walked toward the exit.

Oh yeah, Adam was going to have a lot of explaining to do, and he didn’t think that Marcia would take it half as well as Warlock had. Maybe, in just this one instance, lying would be the better part of valor.

“I thought you looked lonely,” Azazel said, when she was gone.

“I wasn’t.”

“I can see that. If you’d mentioned…”

“I hadn’t gotten around to it. I told dad, but you were already gone, and he had no idea what you were up to either.”

“I thought it would be a nice surprise.”

“It isn’t.”

Azazel tilted his head to the side, and said, suggestively, “It _could _be, if you’re feeling adventurous-”

“I’m not,” Adam cut him off before he could suggest whatever he was about to suggest.

“Oscar Wilde, huh?”

“Oscar Wilde,” Adam agreed.

“I can’t argue with your taste. He did clean up nice in that plum suit I put him in. And he’s _so tall_.”

Adam narrowed his eyes. “_Yes._”

“Well,” Azazel said, brightly. “All’s well that ends well. I suppose you’ll be spending a bit more time at home now.”

“Hell isn’t my home,” Adam said, even if the validity of that statement might well be decreasing by the minute, “and this definitely _isn’t over_. I’m going to go try to reverse whatever damage you’ve done to Marcia, but we need to discuss boundaries. I love you, but sometimes, you really just need to learn to mind your own business.”

“You… love me?” Azazel asked, and the shocked wonder in his voice made Adam lose the battle with exasperation completely.

He sighed. “Yes, of course, I love you. You’re irritating; you always show up when I least expect you, or want you around, and I’m not very happy with you right now, but of course I love you. You’re my mum, one of them, anyway.

And then Azazel was hugging him again, and Adam just gave up, and let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full credit to FantasyTLOU for that truly horrendous pun regarding Lucifer not remembering Freddie's name. They pointed out that I should switch the first names (originally Phil Neptune, and Frankie Uranus) and made it absolutely awful, and 1000x better. I can never resist the opportunity for a terrible pun. Thanks, FantasyTLOU! ❤


	29. Uninvited Guests

Marcia was staring up the double staircase, with her back to him, when Adam entered the Grand Hall. The dress she was wearing wasn't her style at all, but she looked cute in it, and Adam supposed that he had Azazel to thank for that—or maybe _blame_ was a more accurate term.

“What's that noise coming from up there?” she asked, as he stopped beside her.

Adam grimaced. “Crowley, I think. They've been on their honeymoon since the engagement.”

“So, this is your godfathers’ wedding that I'm crashing against my will, then?”

“Yeah,” Adam said. “I don't think they'd mind, if you wanted to stay.”

Marcia cast her gaze upward, as the noise took on a more frantic pitch. “I doubt they would notice that I was here. But, somehow I don’t think that your date would like that very much.”

“Oscar wouldn't-" Adam started, but he really had no idea how Oscar would feel about it.

Marcia held up a hand to wave the offer away. “No, it's fine. We ended it months ago. You don't have to pretend to be sorry that you've moved on. I was the one who broke up with _you_, remember?”

“Hard to forget,” Adam said. “Oscar and I,… it's new. I've only known him for a week. I wasn't out looking for a new conquest, the day after we broke up. Not that you were a conquest,… or that Oscar is. I just mean…” Adam sighed. “I'm really sorry about Azazel. He was completely out of line. He mostly means well… sort of, but he can be a complete idiot sometimes. He's not very good at reading situations, and he didn't know about Oscar.”

Marcia hummed, noncommittal. “He really is your mother then?”

“He's the one who gave birth to me, anyway.”

“Then I suppose I owe you an apology.”

“If anyone should be handing out apologies here, it's me. I never wanted to drag you into all of this, and I guess that was the problem. If you hadn't broken up with me over the whole suspecting me of cheating on you_, with my mother_, thing, there would have been something else. Though, I have to admit, on the list of reasons I’ve been dumped, that _was_ a new one. But, I should have been up front with you from the very beginning.”

“Up front about what, exactly?”

Adam hedged, still not quite decided on whether he should lie to her, or tell her the truth. He wasn't sure that she would believe the truth anyway, even after spending time with Azazel, but, what could it possibly matter? This time tomorrow, he'd probably be busy helping to rule in Hell, and he'd never see her again. If she walked away thinking that he was completely mad, then at least she'd feel justified in having dumped him.

“So,” he started. “Azazel is my birth mother, and the guy up on stage just now is my father.”

“The man playing the violin?” Marcia asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I know where you got your good looks from, at least. I always wondered a bit. You look nothing like your your parents-- your adoptive parents, I guess. So, I suppose I believe you, but why would I care who your parents are?”

“You didn't happen to catch which song he was playing, did you?”

“Sympathy for the Devil,” Marcia answered.

Adam raised his brows at her meaningfully.

“What?”

“Let's just say that it was a particularly apt song choice.”

“What does that _even _mean?”

He should just say it. “Marcia, I'm the Antichrist.” _Actually, that felt kind of good. _“My father is Lucifer Morningstar. My mother is the demon Azazel, the original scapegoat—though, having met him, I think you can understand why. I call God grandmother, though the familial relationships there are a bit hazy. I've done carpentry... carpented?...with Jesus Christ. I almost started Armageddon when I was eleven. And, this time tomorrow, I'll probably be ruling in Hell, because Oscar Wilde gives really fantastic blow jobs. So, I’m sorry for wasting your time, but I can't imagine why anyone would want to be involved with all of that if they didn't have to be.” He tried on a reassuring smile. “I'm sure you'll meet someone with less baggage.”

“You're the _Antichrist_,” she repeated, the words dripping with sardonic disbelief.

Of course she didn’t believe him. He didn’t know why he should have expected otherwise, but it still hurt, a bit. Still, he thought that he saw a flicker of something behind her horn-rimmed glasses—a touch of recognition, the sense of gears clicking into place, and unexplainable occurrences suddenly being given an explanation, even if it wasn’t one that she was ready to believe.

“I'm the Antichrist,” he said again.

“But _you're an Atheist_.”

Adam shook his head. “I'm about as far from being an Atheist as it's possible to be. I think God is an egotistical bitch with Her head up Her arse, who should take responsibility for Her creations, and seriously needs to reevaluate how She runs things, or allows them to be run in Her absence, but I know that She exists. My life would be a lot simpler if She didn't.”

“You sound crazy, Adam—like some fanatical religious lunatic. I thought you were a scientist.” She was stepping away from him now.

“I _am_ a scientist,” he said. “And I don't believe for a second that the world was created six thousand years ago by a few words from God's lips. She's a huge liar, and The Bible is a bunch of mistranslated garbage and propaganda, but there _are_ celestial and demonic forces at work in the universe, and I'm one of them.”

“Sure you are,” she said sarcastically, wrapping her arms around herself and taking another step back.

Adam flicked a hand up into the air, calling up a black jumper from wherever things came from when he decided that he wanted them—the recombined elements around him, maybe. He held it out to her. “Here, you look cold.”

She jerked the jumper out of his hand with obvious irritation. “That doesn't _prove_ anything. David Blaine can do that.”

“I thought _you _were a scientist.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Throw out your preconceived notions and apply some critical thinking. The universe is a big and mysterious place. You can't understand all of it. No one can.”

“So, just because I don't have all the answers, that means that _God_ has to be behind it all? I don't understand computer coding either. That doesn't mean that Google is magic.”

Adam sighed. “I'm just saying that you should be open to the possibility that all of your theories about everything aren't going to be right all the time, or you aren't going to be a very good Paleontologist.”

“Or maybe this is all some kind of hallucination going on in my own mind—misfiring neurons caused by biological or emotional trauma: Occam's Razor.”

“Just because, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, when you hear hoof beats, it turns out to be horses, doesn't negate the existence of zebras,” Adam countered. “And usually, when I hear hoof beats, it turns out to be an overly familiar demonic goat.”

Marcia grimaced. “Makeup,” she said. “They do it in the movies all the time. The velociraptors in Jurassic Park weren't real either. Those were just people in costumes.”

Adam smirked, delighted with the possible rebuttal that her argument had opened up. “Do you want to see a real dinosaur?”

“_What? What kind of-"_

Adam couldn't bring Marcia to Hell, only Death, faith, and the arbitrary breaking of a bunch of outdated edicts about morality could do that, but he could bring Dilly to her.

He snapped his fingers and grabbed her by the shoulder, to pull her out of harm's way, as an adolescent, but swiftly growing, Eustreptospondylus skittered across the tiled floor and whacked his tail against one of the marble pillars.

Dilly cocked his head up at Adam, gave a squawk and ruffled the feathers of his head crest uncertainly.

“You'd better behave,” Adam told him. “I _will _drop your arse on the floor. Don't think that I won't.”

“Adam,” Marcia whispered from behind him. “What is that?”

“According to you, it's probably just someone in a eustreptospondylus costume.”

“What the fuck, Adam? What the _actual _fuck.”

“Do you believe me yet, or should I get my Gran out here, so you can take it up with Her?”

He didn't get to hear Marcia's reply, because Dilly took a couple of steps toward them, to sniff at Adam’s hair, (looking for his next meal of rare cut-of-Hastur, probably,) and Marcia screamed.

-*-

Aziraphale pulled his head out from between Crowley's thighs and looked around. “Did you hear that?”

“No,” Crowley lied, gripping Aziraphale's hair and trying to pull him back down.

“I'm sure that I heard a woman scream.”

“Yeah, that was me,” Crowley said, only partially lying.

“I know what _you _sound like,” Aziraphale snapped back. “I'm telling you. There's a woman screaming downstairs.”

“So what if there is?”

“We should check to see if everyone is all right.”

“Oh no, we shouldn't.”

“Someone might be in trouble.”

“God's down there. What happened to your faith, angel? Let Her handle it.”

Aziraphale gave Crowley a pointed look.

“Oh, fine,” Crowley grumbled. “It isn't as though we were in the middle of anything. Might as well go and see what fresh Hell awaits us downstairs.”

“There’s no need for dramatics.”

“_Dramatics?_ There's a woman screaming in a building full of the most powerful beings in existence— half of whom hate the other half, and vice versa. Don't tell me that you think this is a _presage of_ _good fortune_.”

“I knew that you heard her too.”

-*-

Oscar wasn't trying to be nosy, he really wasn't. He just thought that it might be a good idea to be near at hand, in case Adam needed him.

At least, that was what he told himself, as he lingered next to the closed door to the Grand Hall, holding his drink, and trying not to appear as though he was lurking.

It was also the reason that he was the only one who could hear the scream over the sound of Lucifer's electric fiddle.

He didn't hesitate to go through the door, intent on offering his assistance.

He did, however, stop cold in his tracks at the sight of Dilly.

“Oscar,” Adam said. “Help me with her. I can't hold her up and keep control of the dinosaur at the same time. He's kind of freaking out.”

The dinosaur did, indeed, look distressed, assuming that the crouched position he was in and the head jerking was some indication. The girl appeared to be suffering from a case of the vapours.

Oscar took a few wary steps toward Adam and put a steadying arm around the young woman.

“It's a dinosaur,” she was mumbling. “It's a _fucking_ dinosaur, a living Eustreptospondylus, and Adam's the Antichrist. Did _you _know that Adam is the Antichrist?” She looked up to meet his eyes. “Oh, you're _Oscar Wilde_. I heard that you give really good head.” She giggled manically. “How's a girl supposed to compete with that?”

Oscar was at an unprecedented loss for words. He took his attention off the girl to give the dinosaur his full consideration. To be fair, anytime one is in a room with a living, breathing, carnivorous theropod, it has a way of making itself the most pressing concern of the moment.

He'd seen pictures of the animal, of course, on Adam's mobile, but being presented with the reality of tightly coiled muscle beneath scaled skin, a chest heaving with each agitated breath, the sharp teeth, behind thin, peeled back, lips, and just the sheer size of the thing, was quite a different matter entirely.

The little animal inside Oscar, that recognized itself as prey, quivered in the face of it, but the artist inside him was overtaken by its beauty. He'd seen a tiger once, at the London Zoo, and it had left that same feeling of fear and wonder deep in his chest.

Oscar’s breath caught in his throat, as Adam approached the dinosaur and laid a hand against the side of its face—so close to all those _teeth_.

He spoke to it gently, murmuring words that Oscar couldn't quite make out, and the animal seemed to be relaxing—nuzzling into Adam's hand.

Then, there was a loud crash from upstairs, and Crowley and Aziraphale stood at the landing, looking down at them from the balcony between the double staircase.

“Oi,” Crowley yelled. “I don't think we invited any bloody dinosaurs to our wedding!”

Dilly jerked his head away from Adam's hand and whipped it back and around, quick as lightning, to seek out the source of the noise. His tail cracked into one of the marble pillars in the process, and the balcony rattled.

Crowley jumped back, but Adam maintained his ground, holding a hand up, ready to subdue the dinosaur if necessary.

Oscar held the girl a bit more firmly, and backed slowly toward the door.

“I was just trying to prove a point,” Adam said in a calm voice. “Stop shouting. You're scaring him.”

“Oh, I'm scaring _him_, am I?” Crowley shouted back.

The dinosaur screeched.

“Fuck! Yes, all right!” Crowley changed to a more normal register, though his voice seethed with sarcasm. “Yes, nice beastie. Nothing to worry about here. Nice to see you. Hope you like cake.”

Dilly screeched again, and crouched, tail waving, as his head bobbed from side to side—considering the balcony.

“I think that perhaps you should send Dilly home now, Adam,” Aziraphale suggested in a strained tone.

“Uh, yeah,” Adam agreed. “I think I made my point, anyway.”

Adam snapped his fingers, the dinosaur disappeared, and there was a collected sigh of relief.

“What on _Earth _made you think that _that_ was a good idea?” Crowley demanded, starting down the stairs with Aziraphale in tow.

Adam shrugged. “It seemed like the simplest way to prove the existence of God, at the time.”

“With a dinosaur?” Aziraphale asked.

“You have to appreciate the irony.”

“Not to mention, your love of _expediency_,” Crowley sniped. “Who's the girl? I don't remember inviting her either.”

“This is Marcia,” Adam introduced the shaking woman. He looked to her and gestured at his godfathers. “Crowley and Aziraphale.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Aziraphale said, holding out his hand, and she took it on reflex.

“You invited your _girlfriend_?” Crowley asked, and gestured pointedly at Oscar. “What about _him_?”

“She's my _ex_-girlfriend, and I didn't invite her. Azazel kidnapped her.”

“That I believe,” Crowley muttered.

“Why are you wearing a wedding dress?” Adam asked, suddenly noticing the white satin and lace that Crowley was draped in.

“Because I got married today.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“It went with the cunt, and Aziraphale was bragging about what a cunning linguist he is.”

Aziraphale flushed. “You don't need to be crude, my dear.”

“He asked!” Crowley threw his hands in the air. “And, now we've _sorted out the disturbance, _I think it's time we went back upstairs, so you can continue your _oral exercises._”

Aziraphale gave Crowley a fond look, but then turned to look disapprovingly at Adam. “Unfortunately, I believe that our guests have proven their need for supervision.”

Crowley glared at Adam. “Your pet dinosaur just cost me multiple orgasms.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “Somehow, I think you'll recoup the loss. Anyway, you're missing the show. My dad's up on stage going all ‘Devil went down to Georgia.’ It's only a matter of time before Freddie gets in on the chance to put on a show, and God probably plays a mean sax, for all I know.”

Crowley froze, considering. “Actually… I think I'd like to see that.”

“Does that mean we get to dance, some more?” Aziraphale asked. “I'd love to see how that dress twirls when I spin you.”

Crowley looked slightly ill at the prospect.

“Oh, _please,_ Crowley,” Aziraphale entreated. “You only get one chance to dance at your wedding reception.”

“Yes, fine.” Crowley grumbled. “Let's get a wiggle on.”

Aziraphale beamed.

“Are you going to be okay?” Adam asked Marcia, when they had gone.

Marcia stood a bit straighter, pulling Adam's magic jumper around her. “That was a dinosaur,” she said, firmly.

“Yes,” Adam agreed.

“Eustreptospondylus.”

“Yes. The resurrected specimen that used to be at the Oxford museum, actually. I call him Dilly.”

“Used to be?”

“Until about three months ago. The one on display now is a fake. Or… well… _probably _a fake. Crowley made it, so it could _possibly _be real, just not… the original. We were in kind of a tight spot, and Yeshua, that is Jesus, resurrected him to eat a demon. He's pretty good at it.”

“Right,” Marcia said. “You're the Antichrist.”

“Yes.”

She turned to look at Oscar. “And you're Oscar Wilde?”

Oscar nodded. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss.”

“Right,” Marcia said again. “I hope the two of you will be very happy together.” She turned back to Adam. “You were right about one thing, and dead wrong about another.”

Adam grinned. “_Oh_? What's that?”

“You have a lot of baggage. You should have been honest from the beginning, and there's no way that I want to get involved with any of this.”

“Well, that's three things, but who's counting? What was I wrong about?”

“I'm going to be an excellent Paleontologist, and I want a chance to study that dinosaur… when there's less of a chance that it's going to eat me.”

Adam inclined his head. “I think that can be arranged.”

“Good,” Marcia said. “Now, I have a party to go to. One that I was actually _invited_ to. I think, after all of this, the least you owe me is a ride home.” She glanced briefly at Oscar and amended, “You can buy me a cab, since I see that you're in the middle of a date.”

“I'll get you a drink, while Adam arranges transportation,” Oscar agreed.

-*-

Aziraphale and Crowley were making their way around the bar, toward the dance floor, when they all but tripped over Gabriel, who sat on the floor in an undignified heap, giggling, having just fallen off his bar stool.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said in surprise.

At the same time, Crowley said, “Beelzebub.”

“Pretty boy can’t hold hiszzz liquor,” Beelzebub, buzzed merrily—more than a little buzzed themselves.

“You think I’m pretty?” Gabriel asked, looking up at them with shining violet eyes.

“Form of exszpesszion,” Beelzebub dismissed.

“So,” Crowley said. “We can add you two arseholes to the list of wedding crashers, along with Adam’s ex-girlfriend and a dinosaur.”

“Who are you calling an asshole?” Gabriel asked, standing up to his full height and brushing off his jacket. “I’m the Archangel, fucking, Gabriel, _demon_. I am a being of pure light and God’s love.”

“Don’t throw him in with my szide,” Beelzebub protested. “He’sz a defector. And, he’sz right. You are an asszhole.”

“Well, you try being nice when you have to manage a bunch of incompetent underlings!”

Beelzebub raised an eyebrow. “Do you _really_ want to compare notesz. You have no idea the incompencze I have to put up with.”

“I know! Right?” Gabriel said, forgetting Aziraphale and Crowley as he took a seat on the stool again. “Don’t even get me _started_ on the bicentennial employee reviews. Barkeep! Another round.”

Crowley gaped at the pair of them, as they fell into easy conversation over their various managerial woes, and looked to Aziraphale in disbelief-- silently mouthing, _what the fuck?_

“Oh, leave them be,” Aziraphale said, steering Crowley on toward the dance floor once more. “I imagine that, much like us, they find that they have more in common with their direct opposition than their immediate colleagues.”

Crowley winced. “I’m not attending the wedding.”

“I doubt we’d be invited.”

“We’d better be invited, after they crashed ours.”

“I thought you didn’t want to go.”

“It’s still nice to be invited.”

Aziraphale gave Crowley a look.

“Yes, fine. Point taken. Why do you think they’re actually here, anyway?”

“Everyone loves a wedding,” Aziraphale said.

“You really think they were just angry at being left out?”

“Oh, I very much doubt it, but they’re too busy_ fraternizing_ now to cause much trouble.”

Crowley snorted. “We’ll have to make sure the photographer gets a few good shots to send to Michael.”

“We could include them with the thank you card, _as a momento_.”

“Do you really think they’ve brought us gifts?”

“They had better have done,” Aziraphale said, slightly appalled. “It’s one thing to crash, but to not even bring a present for the new couple would be very rude indeed.”

“And I can’t imagine anyone ever accusing The Lord of the Flies and The Archangel _Fucking_ Gabriel of being rude.”

“Point taken,” Aziraphale conceded. “I won’t expect any heartfelt gifts from them, but the least they could do is miracle up a toaster.”

“A toaster?”

“I _like_ toast.”


	30. He's Not The Messiah: He's a Very Naughty Boy

Yeshua loved weddings. He really did. There was good food, music, company, and wine, and if there wasn't wine, he made some. But, as the night wore on, and the dancefloor filled with couples, he found himself where he always did: sat at a table with the other unattached people. In this case, it was Freddie and Death.

Of course, Freddie had been continually asking him to dance since the floor had opened up, but so far Yeshua had begged off. It wasn't that he minded dancing, but Freddie's attentions had started to feel less like genuine, lustful, attraction, that Yeshua should thwart, and more like friendly concern for his wellbeing, which he should deny needing, and while he might have enjoyed a platonic dance with an interested party (even if he wasn't that way inclined, or allowed to be interested himself,) Yeshua was less eager to partner up for the night simply out of a lack of other options and Freddie's pity.

He'd probably give in and dance with the man, eventually, if it would make Freddie feel better, but for now he was content to sit here, at this table, drinking wine, and revisiting an old argument with Death.

A completely ridiculous and totally unfair argument.

“You're making it sound like _I'm_ the arsehole,” Yeshua said, disbelieving, “Like I'm the arsehole, for dying for humanity's sins—in what has to be _the most_ unpleasant way possible.”

“IT WAS DAMNED INCONVENIENT.”

“Is it really, though?” Freddie asked. “Don’t get me wrong. Crucifixion sounds terrible, but I can think of things that would be worse.”

“Like _what_?” Yeshua demanded.

“Well,” Freddie said, considering. “What if you were starving to death on a deserted island, and you try to climb to the top of the mountain to get a better view, maybe see if you can see any civilization, only you get to the top, and it's completely deserted. You collapse from exhaustion, and a bird comes and picks out your eyes, and your tongue. You lay there, slowly dying for a day, then you see an airplane, so you try to get to your feet to signal it, but you lose your footing and fall into a volcano. That would have to be worse, right?”

“How would you see the plane, if the bird pecked out your eyes?” Yeshua wanted to know.

“Okay, you _hear_ the plane then.”

“And all this time, you've just been conveniently collapsed on the lip of a volcano, without noticing?

“Maybe you're far enough away that you don't feel the heat, and the volcano just spontaneously erupts, the moment you hear the airplane.”

“And the airplane is just flying around next to an erupting volcano?”

“The plane is full of volcanologists, there to study the eruption,” Freddie suggested.

“How did you end up on the island?” Yeshua asked.

“Shipwreck. You were attacked by pirates. Your leg was blown off my a cannonball. The ship's surgeon managed to successfully amputate it, just before the pirates boarded. They shot him, and threw you overboard. You spent three days, feverish and fending off hungry sharks, clinging to a piece of the wreckage, before you washed up on the island.”

“And you managed to climb to the top of a volcano, with only one leg, while you were starving to death?”

“You really wanted to survive,” Freddie said. “You'd just been offered a captain's position. About to marry the love of your life. Sick mother at home that depended on you for everything, and you finally had the money to pay for the surgery she needed to save her life.”

Yeshua threw up his hands. “Okay, fine! In the highly unlikely event that you were attacked by pirates, lost your leg, suffered through a fever, been attacked by sharks, climbed a mountain, while starving to death, with one leg, had your eyes and tongue picked out by birds, and just as you were about to be rescued (by an anachronistic airplane,) you were burned to death by a spontaneously erupting volcano, that would be worse than death by crucifixion. But, it still _wouldn't be my fault_.”

“I’M JUST SAYING,” Death said,“THAT CARRYING YOUR SOUL AROUND FOR THREE DAYS WASN'T A WALK IN THE PARK FOR ANYONE. IT WASN'T WHAT I SIGNED ON FOR. AND, EVERYONE KNOWS THAT THE WORSE WAY TO DIE IS DEATH BY EMBARRASSMENT.”

They both stared at him.

“THE IGNOMINY LASTS LONG AFTER THE PAIN HAS ENDED. TRUST ME, IT'S MY BUSINESS.”

Yeshua frowned. “Maybe,” he allowed, “but, are you telling me that you volunteered for the whole _Angel of Death_ gig? Because, if that's the case, I think that I'd lose all respect for you.”

“WHY? IT'S A JOB, LIKE ANY OTHER. IT'S GOING TO GET DONE EITHER WAY, AND I WAS PROMISED RETIREMENT, AFTER I PUT IN MY SIX THOUSAND YEARS. THOUGH, YOU CAN SEE HOW WELL THAT PAID OFF. WORKING ALL THE HOURS GOD SENDS, AND THIS IS THE FIRST PROPER NIGHT OFF I'VE HAD IN AGES.”

“So, you're just in it for the benefits package?” Freddie asked.

“AND THE MERCHANDISING.”

“I honestly can't tell if you're joking.”

“IT'S A BIG EGO BOOST, SEEING YOUR FACE ON T-SHIRTS AND RECORD LABELS.”

“I can't disagree with you there,” Freddie said.

“Easy for the two of you to say,” Yeshua grumbled. “They always either make me look like some white guy with an inappropriate love of sheep, or they stick me up on that damned cross again. It's depressing. I mean, if-"

“This one's for _The Son of God!_” Azazel's voice interrupted him, drunken and amplified by the electronic equipment scattered throughout the room.

Yeshua looked up to see him, male once more, but still wearing the silver evening dress, standing on the stage next to Lucifer, holding a microphone, and looking straight at him.

“What,” Yeshua mumbled, but then Azazel started singing.

Whatever the song was, it started out innocently enough.

“I'm not feeling alright today. I'm not feeling that great.” Azazel actually had a surprisingly nice voice, and Yeshua just watched him with perplexed suspicion.

It solidified to just plain suspicion as Azazel sang, “The barber can give you a haircut.The carpenter can _take you out to lunch_,” and made it sound like a euphemism.

“What's he…” Yeshua started again, but it just went on.

“I just want to play on my panpipes.  
I just want to drink me some wine.  
As soon as you're born you start dyin', so you might as well have a good time.”

By the time he got to the repeated chorus of, “_Sheep go to Heaven. Goats go to Hell_,” Yeshua was getting to his feet.

“I think I'm going to get some air,” he told Freddie and Azrael, over the music. “It's getting a little hot in here.”

“I'll say,” Freddie agreed. “I can storm the stage and perform _Jesus_ next, if it makes you feel better.”

Yeshua forced a laugh. “You should, but I'm going to step out for a bit.”

They both watched, as Yeshua wove his way through the tables and out the door.

‘WEIGHT OF THE WORLD ON HIS SHOULDERS, THAT ONE,” Death said. “MUST BE WHY HIS SOUL IS SO HEAVY.”

“I don't think I've ever met anyone who needs to get laid so badly, in my life,” Freddie added.

-*-

Yeshua stepped out into the night air, closing his eyes to feel it cool on his face, and let out a deep breath.

He shouldn't let Azazel get to him so much. He knew that. You couldn't expect empathy from a demon. But, he _had_ learned to expect it—through Crowley's sympathetic winces, and mumbled dispersions about God on his behalf, throughout their time together. But, then, Crowley was different. He’d never been a very good demon, or a very bad one, at that. And, Azazel, while not particularly excelling at it, did seem to revel in his work. He'd found Yeshua's sore spot, and took every chance he could to poke at it. Maybe Yeshua should have just accepted the blow job and had done with it. Dad might have sent him to Hell, but Adam didn't make it sound all that bad, and maybe it would have been worth it. Azazel was probably pretty good at blow jobs; he'd undoubtedly had enough practice.

Yeshua heaved a sigh. It was just sex. There was more to life than sex. But, if Freddie could go out and do it with any stranger that caught his eye, every night of the week and twice on Sundays, and still go back to Heaven, then why couldn't he? It was the unfairness of the whole thing that really bothered him. Hadn't he been through enough? Hadn't he been sacrificed, in love of humanity, that the faithful could have eternal life? Didn't he deserve a little love of his own? Didn't _he_ deserve to be happy?

His thoughts were broken by the click of a disposable lighter and the brief flare of a lighting cigarette. He looked over to see a slight, blonde woman, the shadow of her face briefly illuminated by the glow of the burning ember, as she took a drag and let out a plume of smoke.

She held the cigarette away from her so the breeze wouldn't blow the smoke in his direction. “I quit, about a year ago, “ she said, “but it's been quite the night. I suppose you're Jesus.”

“Yeshua,” he said.

“Of couse.” She took another drag. “I'm Marcia.”

“Adam's girlfriend?”

“_Ex_-girlfriend,” she clarified. “I’m not supposed to be here. I was kidnapped by a goat and almost eaten by a dinosaur.”

“I know the goat,” he said, sympathizing.

“And Adam said _you're_ responsible for the dinosaur.”

“It was his idea,” Yeshua said, stepping closer. “I just did the resurrection.”

Marcia hummed, taking another drag. “I'm an Atheist, you know. I don't believe in you.”

“That's okay,” Yeshua said. “Sometimes I don't believe in me either. Could I have one of those?” he asked, pointing to the cigarette.

She took the pack out of her purse and handed one to him, along with the lighter. “They're stale,” she warned. “Like I said, I quit. Didn't even know that I had them, but I don't usually use this purse. The goat found it in the back of my wardrobe. Said it went with the dress.”

“It's a nice dress,” Yeshua said, lighting the cigarette and coughing a bit on the first drag.

“I'm supposed to be wearing a pachycephalosaurus costume,” she said. “I spent _weeks_ on it. It's Halloween. I'm supposed to be getting drunk with a bunch of nerds and arguing about dinosaur reproductive habits, and whether t-rex had feathers, or if brontosaurus ever existed, not freezing my arse off in a skimpy dress and smoking stale cigarettes with Jesus Christ.”

“Yeshua, please.”

“Yeshua,” she corrected. “Sorry. It's just been kind of a rough night.”

Yeshua shrugged. “It's okay. I'm out here because Azazel is onstage making fun of me, because I wouldn't have sex with him.”

“Isn't he married to Satan, or something?” she asked.

Yeshua shrugged, not sure how to even begin to explain _that _relationship. “He was sent to tempt me into sin, to damn my soul to Hell. He's still a little sore that it didn't work.”

“Well,” she said, “good on you, for not falling for it, I guess.”

“My chastity remains intact,” he said, with a self-deprecating tone.

“You don't sound all that happy about it.”

Yeshua shrugged. “Sometimes it isn't easy being the messiah.”

“I'll bet.”

They fell silent for a moment, smoking companionably.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Marcia asked, stubbing out her cigarette.

“What?” Yeshua asked, freezing with his own cigarette halfway to his mouth.

“Not, uh… for the _loss of chastity_ thing. Just, get out of here. You don't seem like you're having any fun. You can come with me to my Halloween party, if you want—argue creationism with a bunch of drunk paleontologists, or whatever.”

“Do I need a costume?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I have a compsognathus fossil fragment back at my flat. You could,” she wiggled her fingers. “It'd be a pretty cool party trick.”

“What's a compsyg- whatever you said?”

“Little guy,” she said, holding her hands a few feet apart. “Won't eat anyone. I promise.”

He considered. “Okay. Yeah. Why not?”

The cab pulled up then, and Marcia gestured to it. “I guess this is us.”

Yeshua gave one last glance over his shoulder, back at the William Kent House, music emanating loud enough to be heard, even outside.

_As soon as you're born, you start dyin’ So, you might as well have a good time._

-*-

Freddie eventually did take the stage. He sang _Good Old-fashioned Lover Boy_ for the grooms, while Lucifer accompanied on his fiddle, Azazel sang backup, and the hired band did their best to play along.

Aziraphale and Crowley danced, so lost in each other, the music, and the moment, that neither of them paid much attention to _how_ they were dancing, and just let their bodies move as they would—which turned out to be a much better approach.

Adam and Oscar had made it back out onto the dance floor as well, after calling for a cab and then being sent away by Marcia so that she could, “_just have a moment to process without you two hovering over my shoulders. I'm fine, Adam, really. Just go away.”_

It was fine. Everything was fine. Adam would call her tomorrow, once he had Oscar settled back in Hell, and he'd figured out exactly what his new responsibilities were supposed to be. By then, she would have either convinced herself that tonight had all been some crazy dream, or she'd be asking him a thousand and one questions about Dilly.

It would all be fine.

“Is something the matter?” Oscar asked.

“No,” Adam said, looking up at him. “Just worrying about things I can't control. I suppose I should go have that talk with my Grandmother now.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Do you want me there for moral support?”

Adam snorted. “God's supposed to be the one you turn to for that. But, no, actually I think I'd rather go alone. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. I think the night is nearly over, and I'd like a chance to say a proper goodbye to Aziraphale. I don't suppose I'll be seeing him again anytime soon.”

Adam frowned. “I might not _want _to be in charge of your afterlife, but I am. I don't know exactly what that means yet, but things are going to be different. I'll make sure that you can see Aziraphale, and any of your other friends, whenever you want.”

Oscar blinked in surprise at the idea. “Robbie?”

“Robbie Ross?” Adam asked, and Oscar nodded. Oscar hadn't brought him up before, but Adam had done a bit of googling one night, to give himself a historical refresher course, when he realized that he was falling for him, and Robbie's name had come up more than once. He was a former lover, which brought a sting of jealousy, but he'd been a good friend to Oscar, and he was one of the few people who hadn't abandoned him in his time of need. “Which side of the afterlife did he end up on?”

“I never saw him in Hell,” Oscar said, “though it's a large place. He might be there.”

“I'll find him,” Adam promised, “and anyone else you want. Just let me set up some ground rules with Gran.”

“Ground rules.”

“I don't doubt for a second that She's somewhere behind all of this. She's behind _everything. _And, if She thinks I'm going to give up everything I've worked for, for the last five years, She has another thing coming.”

“In that case, I rescind my offer to accompany you, and wish you the best of luck. I’ll be standing a safe distance away.”

Adam stretched to press a reassuring kiss to Oscar’s lips and pulled away. “It will be fine. She doesn’t scare me.”

It was a lie. She did scare him, at least a little. He’d have to be a complete idiot not to be wary about arguing with someone who’d been known to rain down fire and plagues when She didn’t get Her way. But, Adam didn’t like bullies, and he wasn’t about to stand down either.

So, it was with more than a little trepidation that he made his way over to the table that God was sharing with the Virign Mary—having taken a break from dancing.

“Adam,” She greeted, smiling warmly. “I see you’ve made your decision.”

“Oscar,” Adam said. “That’s what you were being characteristically cryptic about before.” He took a seat across from her. “So, did I make the right choice?”

“Time will tell,” She said, “but I think so.” She turned to Mariam then, “Why don’t you go have another piece of cake, dear? Adam means to express his displeasure with me. There’s no need for you to witness that.”

“I don’t mind,” Mariam said, but God gave her a pointed look, and she sighed and left the table.

“Doesn’t she have a husband?” Adam asked, when she’d gone.

“Of course,” God agreed, “but she’s the mother of My child, and I am God. Her devotion is to Me first, and her earthly bonds second.”

“Right,” Adam said, happy to leave the intricacies of their relationship at that.

“I am happy that you’ve chosen to take up your responsibilities,” She said, “though, I would have preferred that you had done so of your own accord, rather than feeling as though you have been forced into it. It is a kind thing that you’re doing for Oscar.”

“I love him,” Adam said.

“I know. I can feel it coming off the both of you like the fallout from an atomic bomb.”

“No need to make it sound so destructive,” Adam grumbled.

“Not at all,” God said. “I only mean to convey the magnitude, and in such a short time. It’s surprising.”

“Surprising? Aren’t you supposed to be all knowing?”

“I’ve told you before, Adam. Free will is outside my purview. You _chose_ to love Oscar. Because of that love, you’ve chosen to take your place in Hell, so that you can be with him. I had nothing whatsoever to do with it. After your years of protests, I’m surprised that you would give up your hard won autonomy so easily.”

“That’s what I’m here to talk to you about. I don’t plan on giving up anything. I’ll live in Hell. I’ll work in Hell. I’ll do what you and my dad want, but I’m not going to be pushed around. It’s a job. It isn’t going to be my entire life. I expect regular working hours, and holidays. I’m going to finish my degree, and I plan to continue my paleontological research. I don’t mean just with Dilly either. I want time off for excavations. I’ll turn down any university positions, and I’ll operate privately, if I must, but I’m not going to just sit on a throne in Hell like a good little Antichrist.”

“I’m not your boss, Adam,” She said. “Lucifer isn’t even your boss. This isn’t an occupation; it’s a vocation. You’ll have responsibilities. How you choose to exercise them, and the consequences of those decisions, will be entirely up to you.”

“So, I can skive off the job completely, and no one will care?”

“A great many people will care, and pay the price for your apathy, but I doubt it will come to that. This is the role you were born to play: your destiny. Once you settle in, I think that you’ll find you’re well suited to the task. And, it shouldn’t prove to be all consuming. You’ll find time for your _hobbies_.”

Adam took out his mobile phone, pulled up a picture of Dilly, and set it in front of Her, a self-satisfied smile on his face. “I’d bring him here, for you to see in person, but he wasn’t invited, and Crowley will have a fit.”

She sighed. “You’re going to ask Me a lot of questions, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been making a list,” Adam agreed.

“It isn’t what you think it is.”

“Do tell.”

“I don’t have to explain Myself to you.”

Adam took his phone back, snorting. “I figured You’d weasel out of it.”

“They were here when I got here,” She hissed.

Adam froze. “_What_?”

“Not another word about it,” She said.

“No. Hang on. You can’t just…”

“Not. Another. Word.” She said, voice taking on a tone that was one step away from making his ears bleed.

Adam fell silent.

God held out Her empty hands, and when Adam blinked, they had been filled with a curved fossil bone the length of a walking stick. “I told you that if you made the right decision, I had a gift for you. I hope that this will keep you busy down in Hell for a while. I’m sure that Yeshua can help you with the... assembly.”

“A mate for Dilly?” Adam asked, taking the fossil reverently, and turning it in his hands, examining it.

“I was going to give you coordinates and let you have the fun of digging it up yourself, but since you insist on being difficult… I hope this will put a stop to your questions.”

Adam looked up at her sharply. “What? No! Not even a little bit. This doesn’t _explain_ anything.”

“Ah, well, I’ll just have it back then.”

Adam pulled the fossil toward him protectively. “You’re _bribing_ me?”

“Is it working?”

Adam frowned down at the fossil in his hands and sighed. “_Yes,_” he admitted, reluctantly. “This is a rib bone, isn’t it?”

“You’re the paleontologist.”

“_Of course_ it is.” He looked away for a moment, deliberated, and met her gaze again. “Fine. No more dinosaur questions, but we both know that the Book of Genesis is full of lies, and if they are a practical joke, then the joke isn’t on me.”

“It’s a lot more complicated than you can imagine. We all have roles to play, even Me.”

“And what the Hell does that mean?”

“Ineffability is inevitable.”

“Right, well, this has been confusing as ever, but thanks for the dinosaur. I’m sure Dilly will be excited. I take it, since he’s supposed to be performing resurrections, that this means you’re letting Yeshua stick around.”

“Yeshua has left the building,” God said. “In the company of your young lady, as it happens. He’s getting quite a bit of practice with prehistoric resurrections, as we speak.”

“What?”

“I can hardly drag him home, kicking and screaming, from his first date.”

“With _Marcia_, resurrecting dinosaurs?” Adam felt a fierce sense of jealousy that was more professional than romantic.

“I’ll send Gabriel to clean up the mess, if there’s anything left of him when Beelzebub is finished with him, and Azrael has the night off, so there’s no mortal danger for any of the innocent bystanders, or the not so innocent ones, for that matter.”

“What about the enforced chastity?” Adam asked. “I’ve been listening to him complain about it for _months_. Now, you’re suddenly fine with him dating?”

“His obligations have been fulfilled. Of course, I expect him to marry the woman before he has carnal knowledge of her.”

Adam barked out a laugh. “Oh, Marcia will _love_ that,” he said sarcastically. “Good luck.” He stood, still clutching his prize to his chest like it might disappear.

“And you as well, Adam. I think that you’ll discover that Hell is what you make of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Azazel's song is "Sheep Go To Heaven," by Cake.
> 
> For the Adam/Oscar shippers: I've had a growing playlist for this fic since I started writing this, and I realized that I didn't have a track for Oscar yet, and I found [this.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FegdTNK_ZV4) It's too perfect not to share.


	31. Save the Last Dance for Me

After a short set, Lucifer, Azazel, and Freddie had given the stage back over to the actual band, and the lead singer, shaken but gamely attempting to be professional, had done his best to return to the normal program.

They finished up a rendition of T-Rex's _I Love to Boogie—_during which, Aziraphale was able to put his well-practiced high-kicks to full effect, and Crowley was too happily drunken, and too far-gone in-love with his angel, to even be embarrassed.

Now, the singer took the microphone in hand and addressed the party. “If we can have all the married couples out on the dancefloor now, for a special final dance to close out the night,” he said.

The unmarried couples reluctantly left the floor, leaving only Aziraphale and Crowley. They were joined, in a moment, by Anathema and Newton, and Madame Tracy and Shadwell.

The singer looked at this slender offering of married couples, and reconsidered. “Okay, let’s do this a little differently this time. Let’s get_ all_ of the couples back out here, whether you’re married, dating, or you’re just having a _really_ good night.” 

The married couples were joined by Lucifer and Azazel, Adam and Oscar, and God and Mariam. After a moment to confer, Warlock and Pepper joined in as well. As the music was starting, Gabriel and Beelzebub stumbled out, drunkenly, as though pulled by some unstoppable force.

“What the fuck?” Gabriel protested, when he found himself holding Beelzebub in the middle of the assembled couples, as the music began and they all started dancing.

God gave him a smile, and a wave.

“We are _not _a couple.”

“If I wanted to fuck an angel, I’d have better taszte,” Beelzebub agreed.

Gabriel looked to them, offended. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“What’sz it szound like?”

Gabriel puffed out his chest. “Well, if I had any interest in carnal sins, it wouldn’t be with _you_ either.”

Beelzebub snorted. “That iszn’t what I heard from Michael.”

“When did you talk to Michael?” Gabriel demanded. “Are you saying that you’d rather _engage in lustful activities_ with Michael, than _me_?”

Beelzebub raised a brow at him.

“I’ll have you know that I am a prime specimen of male beauty, and Michael wouldn’t know the first thing about how to properly please you.”

“And you would?”

“I excel at everything I do.”

“You’re not very good at danczing,” Beelzebub pointed out, as they stood, unmoving, in the middle of the dancing couples.

“I am an _excellent _dancer,” Gabriel said, taking a firmer grip on Beelzebub, as he started to lead them around the floor in a clumsy box step.

Beelzebub rolled their eyes. “_I _lead. You follow, and try not to look like an idiot. I know that’sz a lot to aszk, but do your beszt.”

-*-

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Mariam asked, as God led her through a subdued waltz, eyes sparkling as She watched the exchange between Gabriel and Beelzebub.

“I’m tired of watching those two dance around each other. If they’re going to do that, they might as well do it to music, and unless someone gives him a good push, it will be like Aziraphale and Crowley all over again. I can’t bear another six thousand years of sitting around watching two idiots _pine_. At some point, you have to say, enough is enough, and give them a good kick in the right direction.”

“Might cause some trouble,” Mariam warned.

God laughed. “Can you imagine how flustered Gabriel will be when he’s trying to keep the secret of a love affair with The Lord of Flies? All the while, he’ll know that I _must_ know about it, but yet I’ll never say a word. He’ll flail around in a self-made torment of his own hypocrisy.”

“You’re punishing him?” Mariam asked. “That hardly seems fair to Lord Beelzebub.”

“I’m enlightening both of them to a broader scope of existence and experience. How they react to the situation is completely up to them.”

“You’re bored,” Mariam said. “Now that Aziraphale and Crowley have worked themselves out, you’ve lost your entertainment. You need someone new to manipulate.”

“What an awful thing to say. I’m the very spirit of love and forgiveness. I only want what’s best for my children.”

“Is that why our son left the party, then?”

“Yeshua’s work is done for now. I’m willing to give him a little leeway. Perhaps he deserves a second chance at a normal human life.”

“Adam is really getting to you; isn’t he?”

“What do you mean?”

“You think that You’ve swayed him around to following Your will, but You’ve been bending Your will to accommodate him.”

“He’s a bright boy—just as head-strong as his father, but with more compassion. Or, perhaps being a Grandmother has mellowed Me.”

Mariam snorted her derision.

They turned, and Mariam caught sight of Freddie Mercury. He was standing alone, leaning against a table, as he watched the couples out on the dance floor. Considering Yeshua’s complaints on everything that the deceased musician had been up to during his time on Earth, Mariam was surprised to see him looking so lonely.

“It's too bad that Freddie doesn’t have anyone to dance with,” she said, making it sound like an offhand observation. “He looks sad.”

God glanced over to him. And, _yes_, he did look rather lonely and pathetic—watching the others while he spun his wedding ring around with the thumb and forefinger of his other hand.

She looked back at Mariam and raised her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. It was a rather self-serving gesture, all things considered. “You're such a romantic,” she grumbled.

“I don't know what you mean,” Mariam replied, innocently. “I just said that he looks sad.”

“Yes, _all right_.” God snapped her fingers.

They slowed their dancing to watch as a solidly built man, of about forty, with a mustache to match Freddie's, appeared beside him.

Shock turned to joy quickly, as the two embraced, clutching desperately to each other, grinning excitedly.

They pulled only far enough apart to see each other's faces, exchanging words quickly. But, instead of joining the other couples on the dance floor, Freddie Mercury and Jim Hutton exchanged one quick kiss before they made a mad dash out of the room, hand in hand.

Mariam's brow furrowed in confused disappointment. “Where are they going?”

God laughed. “Upstairs to admire the artwork,” She said. “There's quite the gallery up there.”

“There's…” Mariam started, still somewhat confused, then her brow cleared and she slapped God lightly on the shoulder. “You _knew_ that would happen.”

“I know _everything,_” she said. “Technically, they could have exercised their free will, and the rare chance of a few minutes with a pair of corporeal bodies, for a bit of _dancing_, but there's no defying basic human nature. Given the desire, and a willing partner, humans always choose the horizontal tango.”

The lead singer called any couples who'd been together for less than a day off the floor. Typically, this would be the point when the newlyweds would surrender the floor to the more experienced married couples, but since the singer had changed things up, Crowley and Aziraphale continued dancing, while it was Warlock who led Pepper off the floor.

Beelzebub and Gabriel exchanged a disgusted look, and started to make their escape, but as they passed God, She raised her hand, and they were unceremoniously snapped back together.

“Oh, I don't think the two of you are finished yet,” She said.

“What are you talking about?” Gabriel asked, honestly confused.

“Israel, around 1 BC,” God said. “I think there was a certain interlude involving a silk merchant and an amphora of wine.”

Gabriel’s face clouded for a moment, and then cleared with dawning horror, sudden realization, and disgust. “That wasn't… Nothing happened. I didn't… I only bought a _scarf_, for a _souvenir_.” He unconsciously fingered the lavender scarf around his neck.

Beelzebub snorted. “I was just trying to get drunk.”

“And yet, one of you ended the day tied to a post with a silk scarf,” She gestured to Gabriel's _souvenir_, “covered in honey, while the other found themselves, blindfolded,” She gestured to the red sash hung over Beelzebub's shoulder, “and covered in bees. Not, perhaps, the most auspicious of beginnings, but a beginning nonetheless. You both wear the remembrance of it, daily. I think you'll be out here, as long as we are.” She led Mariam, away from them, into a smooth waltz, as the music changed, and Gabriel and Beelzebub began to argue.

Adam and Oscar were the next couple to leave the dancefloor, and they joined Warlock and Pepper at the bar, happily enough.

As the singer called out the five year mark, Aziraphale began to pull away from Crowley.

“Where do you think you’re going, angel?” Crowley asked, pulling him back.

Aziraphale frowned. “It’s been five years since we began… well, that is to say, _added_, the… physical aspect to our relationship.”

“As you say, _added_,” Crowley said, pointedly.

“Ah yes,” Aziraphale agreed, settling back against him once more. “I suppose that things had been, so to say, _official _for a bit longer than that.”

“A bit.”

They continued to dance through the beginning of the next song, but when Madame Tracy, Shadwell, Newton, and Anathema left the floor, at the fifteen year mark, Aziraphale again tried to pull away.

“No,” Crowley said.

“No? Well, surely thwarting Armageddon was when we really started…”

“No,” Crowley repeated, firmly.

Aziraphale’s face softened. “The Blitz,” he said, “when you-“

“No.”

“Well when, then?” Aziraphale demanded. “Exactly how long have we been a romantic couple, without my knowledge or consent?”

Crowley raised a brow at him, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

The Arrangement. _Of course_. You make one little agreement with a demon, and they think they own you for eternity. Aziraphale should have expected as much.

The singer began to look perplexed, as he called for couples with less than forty years to leave, and all the remaining pairs continued to dance. By fifty, he seemed shocked. By sixty it was flat out disbelief, and he called them on it.

“Come now, let's be honest here,” he chided. “I know that no one wants the party to end, but there isn't a one of you that's a day over sixty.”

“Just keep counting,” God said. Her voice held just a hint of command, but it was kind and warm—like a mother gently assuring her child that there were no monsters under the bed.

A blissful and dazed expression went over the man's face, and he continued his countdown, switching from decades to centuries at the hundred year mark.

When the singer reached the fifteenth century, Aziraphale felt Crowley’s hands tighten around him before he could even attempt to pull away. He let out an exasperated sigh. “You mean for us to dance our way all the way back to Eden, don’t you?”

Crowley hummed.

“I don’t think I even liked you for the first couple millennia.”

“_You did_.”

Aziraphale huffed and averted his eyes. “Yes, well, I suppose you did have a certain _demonic charm_, but that doesn’t mean that I ever entertained any ideas of-”

Crowley looked intently into his eyes. “From the moment that I met you on that wall, as soon as you and I were tossed into this duck pond together, _the only pair of swans in the park_, you have been _my_ angel, and God Herself is going to have to drag me off this dance floor if you expect me to leave a moment before I’m ready.”

Aziraphale glanced over to their creator and met Her smile, before looking back to Crowley. “That doesn’t seem to be Her intent.”

“There, you have God’s blessing. What more do you want?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said, in a way that suggested, ‘_I have you, what else **could** I want.’_

Crowley and Aziraphale danced through the centuries together, Aziraphale making the occasional comment of, “I barely saw you in the thirteenth century,” or , “Do you remember that restaurant we went to in Pompeii? It’s too bad it was all gone the next day. I’d give anything for another taste of that bread they had with the little raisins.”

God and Mary, and a still arguing Beelzebub and Gabriel made it through two more songs with them, before they were called off, just past the two-thousand year mark.

Crowley and Aziraphale danced through another half dozen songs: _How Deep is Your Love, _and _Tale As Old As Time, _and, _My Endless Love._

Even with divine reassurance, the singer looked relieved as the band finished a soft rendition of _What a Wonderful World_, and Aziraphale and Crowley, finally, exchanged a long kiss and left the floor, holding hands, after six thousand years or so-- leaving only Lucifer and Azazel.

“And how long have you two lovebirds been together,” the singer asked, getting comfortably back into his normal wedding patter.

“Forever,” Lucifer said.

“Since before time,” Azazel agreed.

“Before the stars were born and the planets were turning, and until the end of all existence.”

“And whatever comes after,” Azazel promised.

From her seat at one of the tables, God smiled at them.

Adam snorted and looked away from his parents. “They're such saps. You wouldn't expect a couple of demons to be such hopeless romantics.”

“I think it's sweet,” Pepper said.

“I wish my parents were like that,” Warlock agreed.

Adam glanced over to where Aziraphale and Crowley were equally lost to the world, staring into each other's eyes, foreheads pressed together, and fingers twined in each other's hair. They continued to sway together, off the dancefloor, even though the music had stopped. “Well, we all had those two idiots to set an example for us, anyway.”

Oscar raised his glass in a toast. “Here's to being an idiot in love, and the hope that we all should be so lucky to ever be so.”

Adam was happy to drink to that, and when he finished his glass and set it down, he twined his fingers with Oscar’s. “The party’s over,” he said, gently. “I suppose we’d better get you back to Hell before you turn into a pumpkin.”

Oscar furrowed his brow. “Is that likely?” When you were dealing with a bunch of angels, fallen or otherwise, and the son of Satan, you could never quite be certain what to expect.

“I don’t think so,” Adam replied, “but, I have my own suite in the Infernal Residence, and if we leave now, we can beat mom and dad back to the house. I don’t know what tomorrow is going to be like, but,” he leaned in to whisper in Oscar’s ear, “_I think I’ll start your torment by seeing how long I can make you beg, before I let you come_.”

Oscar’s face tinged a marvelous shade of pink, at the same time his eyes darkened, and he cleared his throat. “Well, it was lovely to meet you Warlock,” he inclined his head, “Pepper, but I think Adam’s right. We’d best be off.”

Pepper watched them go with a little smirk. “I never would have guessed it in tenth form literature class, but it seems that ‘_the love that dare not speak its name_,’ goes by Adam Young, to his friends.”

“They do seem to work well together,” Warlock agreed.

Pepper turned to look at him, considering. “When are you fucking off back to America, then?”

Warlock froze. “Tomorrow afternoon,” he said uncertainly.

Pepper nodded. “Do you have a hotel room?”

“I’m staying at The Ritz,” he said, a hopeful look in his eyes.

“I’m not having sex with you tonight.”

The hopeful look diminished somewhat.

“But,” she added. “If you take me back to your room, so we can continue to get to know each other a bit better, I might entertain the idea of doing it in the morning.”

Warlock looked at the time on his phone. “It’s almost midnight now.”

“I think we’d better hurry then.”

Warlock wasn’t about to argue.

Aziraphale looked up from Crowley’s shoulder, to where the band was packing up, and their guests were starting to make their farewells. He let out a happy sigh. “I think the party is over.”

Crowley grumbled a disinterested agreement.

“We made it through without starting any wars, and the only death was the officiant. I think we can call the wedding a success.”

“We’re married,” Crowley said. “I think that’s the mark of a successful wedding. Now we can get to the fun part.”

“Marriage?”

“The honeymoon.”

“You still won’t tell me where we’re going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“How am I supposed to know if I’ve packed appropriately for the weather, if I don’t know where we’re going?”

“I don’t plan on letting you get dressed the entire time, so it really doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale said, knowingly. “You don’t know what I’ve packed, but if you have no interest in finding out, I’ll just return it to the shop then, shall I?”

Crowley looked up, sharply. “Why, what’ve you packed?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, innocently. “Mostly just a lot of books that you don’t plan on giving me time to read, a few nibbles that I’m sure we won’t have time to taste, and one or two pieces of lingerie that you don’t mean to let me wear.”

Crowley raised a brow. “Lingerie? You’re serious? You’re not just having me on? Because, so help me, angel-”

“Madame Tracy took me shopping. Oscar and Adam helped.”

Crowley groaned. A nineteenth century dandy, a harlot who’d had her heyday in the 1960’s, and a sexually repressed Antichrist… picking out lingerie… with Aziraphale. Crowley couldn’t even imagine what the result of that would be, but his angel was sure to insist that it was fashionable-- while being poncy, a complete embarrassment, and still somehow managing to pull off whatever ridiculous ensemble he’d concocted in a way that left Crowley making incoherent noises. Honestly, he couldn’t wait to see.

“We need to go,” Crowley said.

“Shouldn’t we say goodbye and thank all of our guests?”

“_Now_, angel.” Crowley took his hand and started dragging him toward the door.

Aziraphale smiled to himself as he was pulled along after him.

-*-

Adam was sure that he had the power to transport himself and Oscar directly to Hell, but he didn’t have the vaguest idea of how to do it, so instead they passed the abandoned valet stand, and made their leisure way to The Ritz’s parking garage, taking frequent breaks along the way for the occasional public display of affection. 

When they finally made it to the correct level of the parking structure, they found it empty of all but three vehicles. There was a heavy smell of motor oil in the air, and the floor was covered with dark, black, tyre marks—likely the result of some serious exhibition driving. The Citroen was back to its usual shape and size, parked near the microbus, both vehicles smoking idly. The Bentley, on the other hand, was parked in front of them, rocking hard on its leaf springs, with the windows steamed up.

Adam froze, pulling Oscar up short, and shot a confused glance back the way they had come. “How did they beat us here? They were still dancing like idiots when we left.”

“Hmm?”

“Aziraphale and Crowley.” Adam gestured at the rocking Bentley.

“Oh.” Oscar laughed. “Perhaps they flew?”

There was a low groan from inside the car.

“Who the fuck is that?” Adam demanded, starting toward the car.

“Crowley, wasn’t it?” Oscar asked, following.

“I _know _what Crowley sounds like,” Adam snapped. He got to the Bentley, and knocked hard on the back window, turning his head to the side, so he wouldn’t see anything that he didn’t want to. “Oi, who’s in there? This isn’t your car! This is private property. Bugger off!”

“That’s what we were trying to do, darling,” a voice came from inside the car.

“_Freddie_?” Adam did look then, and he _did _see more than he wanted to. “For fuck’s sake!” he looked away quickly. “Who the hell is that? And, why is he fucking you in _Crowley’s car_?”

“_Mnnh_,” Freddie moaned. “This is Jim, my husband. Jim, meet Adam. We’re… _hnng_… proving a point.”

That brought Adam up short. He glanced across the roof and fixed his gaze safely in the vicinity of the bonnet, still bouncing slightly. Well, he supposed that if the Bentley _minded_, it wouldn’t have unlocked the doors. Maybe Freddie and Jim having sex in its backseat was a dream come true for Freddie’s biggest fan. Adam wasn’t sure that he wanted to get involved with any of that. His night had been weird enough already, and he had to get Oscar back to Hell for… reasons.

Adam sighed. “Well, just hurry up, and clean up afterward,” he said to the car. “Crowley and Aziraphale are going to need to get to Heathrow. I don’t think Crowley will be very happy if his car smells like sex.”

“Don’t see how he would notice the difference,” Jim grumbled.

“It’s been nice getting to know you, Adam,” Freddie said, “but we’re kind of busy, having a moment, here. Would you mind, terribly, fucking off now?”

“Straight to Hell,” Adam grumbled, turning back to Oscar. He held out his hand again. “Let’s go home.”

The Citroen was handling strangely as they drove off to the corporate entrance to Hell. It seemed to have developed a bit of a rattle around the turns, and it was reluctant to accelerate. No matter what Adam did, he couldn’t get the stereo to play anything other than _Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy._


	32. Epilogue: On Top of the World, Looking Down on Creation

Lucifer and Azazel both cast their eyes upward, simultaneously, as the loud thudding began again on the second floor of the Infernal Residence.

“Make sure you-" Azazel started, but before he could finish the sentence, every electronic device in the house suddenly hummed on with full volume.

There was a brief instant of static, and then. “OHGOD,OHGOD,OHFUCK! OSCAR, THAT'S SO GOOD.”

Lucifer snapped his hand out, and tiny sparks erupted from the radio and television in the study, as well as every other audio-capable device in the house, and the smell of burning plastic and electrical components permeated the room.

“I hate it when he does that,” Lucifer grumbled.

“I don't think he even realizes that he’s doing it. He hasn’t quite understood how much more powerful his sphere of influence is now,” Azazel said.

“Not _that._ Everyone does _that_, once in a while. Can't be helped, in the heat of the moment. I'm happy that he's enjoying himself.”

“What then?”

“_OhGod,OhGod,OhGod,_” Lucifer mocked, in a falsetto. “Damned disrespectful, under my roof. The little brat.”

Azazel chuckled. “I doubt he does itintentionally, as a slight against you.”

“It's the principal of the thing.”

“I bet _He_ hates it,” Azazel suggested. “Going about His day, meanwhile His ears are burning with cries of orgasmic ecstasy, wrought from mortal tongues, raised in unintentional prayer. Gives a new perspective on the 3rd Commandment.”

Lucifer smirked around the rim of his glass of scotch, as he brought it to his lips and sipped, considering. “I can just imagine it. He's in the middle of hearing reports from the archangels, trying to pay attention to Gabriel's latest cockup, and meanwhile Adam's ranting in His ear about… what was it yesterday?”

“Penal code,” Azazel said. He put on a remarkably good impression of Adam. “Holy, _fucking, _God, Oscar. Do you think Thomas Cromwell is down here? I'd like to _ughhh_ give him a front row seat to this. Show him just what I think of his, _oh God…_ Buggery Act of 1533. Fuck the Offences Against the Person Act of 1828, _and_ the Labouchere Ammendment_. _And, Queen Victoria can shove her charges of _gross indecency _right up her fat… _hng…_ powdered…. _Mmmnh_…arse.”

Lucifer gave a deep throated laugh.

“We should probably talk to him about it,” Azazel said.

“Setting up a torment schedule for Thomas Cromwell? You don't think he was serious about that, do you?”

“I meant about broadcasting all of his orgasms through the entire house, but I can help him with the paperwork for Cromwell, if he did mean it.”

Lucifer waved a hand through the air, dismissing the idea. “Leave him be. You know how embarrassed he gets about anything to do with sex. Considering how uptight he is about it, I'm surprised he's so vocal in the bedroom. Anyway, he'll realize what he's doing before too long, and he'll get it under control.”

“We could give him a nudge.”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind?”

“It's like you said,” Azazel suggested. “The heat of the moment. You lose control. It happens to everyone once in a while.”

Lucifer smirked. “You want to give him a taste of his own medicine.”

“It only seems fair. He's been making our ears bleed with _his _orgasms for the last few days. I think it's high time we showed him how it's done.”

-*-

Yeshua clipped his drill onto his belt and rose to his feet, stretching out his back with a crack.

He surveyed his work with the satisfaction of a job well done.

The installation had gone well, and he thought that he'd even managed to maintain the minimalistic aesthetic of the flat. The room that had once housed Crowley’s plants now had a series of floating, maple shelves on one wall, forming catwalks between rounded wooden pods, containing cat beds. Two of the pods had names above them: Minxy and George. The others remained blank, as he still couldn't remember what the other two cats' names were, and he didn’t feel right about just giving them new ones. George lay sleeping, uncooperatively, in one of the blank beds, while the white cat had taken up residence in Minxy's pod, so he didn’t guess that it much mattered anyway.

Minxy was in the middle of a standoff with the flat's newest occupant—over a plate of raw, minced salmon.

The compsognathus, which Marcia simply called Compy, was little more than a baby, and so of a size with Minxy, but it wasn't about to give up its dinner without a fight. It crouched and snapped at the little cat, but Minxy stood her ground, hackles raised and hissing.

“Oh, for Heaven's sake,” Yeshua grumbled. “There’s no need for that. Can't you two just get along?” He waved a hand at Compy's bowl and multiplied the food, and the two animals gave up their squabble and started eating, warily, side by side.

Yeshua went to take a shower, to get ready for his date with Marcia.

-*-

Gabriel groaned and sat up with some difficulty, since his hands seemed to have been tied together with his own scarf. He looked around. They were surrounded by moss hung trees and vegetation in all directions.

“Where, exactly, are we?” he asked.

Beelzebub idly picked a leaf out of their hair. “How the fuck shzould I know?”

Gabriel eyed them, suspiciously. “Do you remember anything from last night?”

“I remember that you szcream when I sztick a finger in your arsze.”

“Did we… _engage in sexual activity_?”

“If that'sz what you want to call it. I've had better.”

“But,” Gabriel protested. “_I was drunk._”

“I doubt you'd be any better szober, but if you're worried about your reputation, we can have another go.”

“I mean that_ I was drunk_; I couldn't consent.”

Beelzebub bristled. “What are you implying? I wasz drunk too, and you definitely didn't _not _conszent. Anyway, you got into bed with a demon; what did you _think_ wasz going to happen?”

Gabriel looked around at the circle of bunched sticks, leaves, and branches that they were sitting in the middle of. “I wouldn't call this a bed. What is this?”

“I think it's a neszt,” Beelzebub said, unconcerned, as they began to put their war regalia back on.

“A nest? It would have to be an awfully big bird.”

“Might have been a gorilla.”

“A gorilla? Where _are_ we?”

“I already told you, I have no idea. Haven't you ever woken up in a sztrange bed before, with no memory of the night before?”

“No! Of course not. I'm the Archangel _Fucking _Gabriel.”

“Well, as the demon who wasz fucking the Archangel Gabriel, last night, I have to szay that I'm not all that impresszed.”

Beelzebub finished straightening their medals and flicked out their wings, preparing to leave.

“Wait! Where are you going? You can't just leave me here!”

“You're the Archangel _fucking_ Gabriel. You're a big boy. I think you can find your own way home.”

“But, what about…? When will I see you again?”

Beelzebub gave him a disgusted look. “Are you always thisz clingy, the morning after?”

“I've never _done_ this before.”

“That explains a lot. Give me a call when you've had more practicze, and I'll szee if I can work you into my szchedule.”

“Your _schedule_? How many others are there?”

“I don't kissz and tell.”

“That's-,” Gabriel started to object, but he cut himself off. “No, that's… _That's good_. No one can ever find out about this.”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes. “Later, Gabe.” They beat their wings, a few times, to gain the first branch of a nearby tree, and moved quickly upward, out of the canopy, and sight.

“Wait!” Gabriel called after them. “Aren't you even going to untie me?”

-*-

Aziraphale wrapped his feather-hemmed silk robe more tightly around himself, as he stepped out of their little cottage and made his way to Crowley with another bottle of wine. His bare feet made light indentations into the hard packed snow as he crossed to the edge of the cliff face and settled himself next to Crowley on their tartan blanket.

“The sun will be coming up soon,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale looked down at the horizon, at the stars still twinkling below them, and up at the wide expanse of the milky way above them. Here, far above the world, the stars shone more brightly than Aziraphale had seen them since the Beginning. The sky was the deepest indigo, but the stars were a riot of colour: purple, and gold, and green. The whole breadth of the galaxy seemed to dance above them, breathtaking in its scope, and unparalleled in its beauty.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley and saw the whole universe reflected in his amber eyes, and thought that as beautiful as the night sky was, it was even more beautiful when reflected in Crowley’s gaze. Crowley smiled at him, eyes dancing with the glitter of uncountable stars, and Aziraphale saw his universe in a nutshell.

“I should have guessed this,” he said.

“Hmmm?” Crowley gave an enquiring and contented little hum as he settled against Aziraphale.

“The honeymoon location,” Aziraphale said. “Of course you'd take me to the top of Mount Everest.”

“You can't complain about the view.”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed. “Though I had been expecting something more tropical.”

Crowley plucked at the translucent silk robe that Aziraphale had draped over his otherwise naked body. “You don't seem to be bothered by the cold.” He slid the robe open to reveal one, peaked nipple. “Not _too_ bothered,” he amended, running his thumb over the little pebble.

Aziraphale let out a gasp. “That isn't from the cold, my dear.”

Crowley leaned forward and flicked his tongue over Aziraphale's heated skin. “And I suppose that hitch in your breath isn't from lack of oxygen either.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale moaned, eyes fluttering shut. “You should take me back inside.”

“I think I'll take you here,” Crowley said, lips brushing Aziraphale's skin. “Under the stars, for all the world to see.”

Aziraphale gave a helpless laugh, as Crowley worked his way lower, mouthing against his belly and the edge of his belly button.

“I suppose we don't have to worry about anyone walking in on us here. Not even Adam would manage to stumble upon us, _en flagrante,_ at the top of the world.”

“No doors to worry about locking,” Crowley murmured. “And you can make as much noise as you like. There's no one to hear you.”

“_Hunhh,_” Aziraphale agreed, breathless.

“Might cause an avalanche,” Crowley suggested.

“That idea _would_ appeal to _you_.”

Crowley smirked, parting Aziraphale's frilly, silk robe further, pulling at the tie. “You look like a dessert in this.”

Aziraphale winced. “I tried on a leather one, all covered with buckles, and laces, and zips. I thought you might like that, but I felt like an overstuffed sausage.”

Crowley hissed. “I think I'll have you feeling _well-stuffed_ in a moment, but I like you like this- like some fancy cake.”

“I suppose you can handle the frosting, as well?” Aziraphale suggested, a wry tone colouring his voice.

Crowley chuckled. “If you like, angel. I'd even be as eager as you to clean my plate.”

Aziraphale huffed out a breath, and it puffed out into the cold air like a whiff of smoke. The temperature may have been well below freezing, but Aziraphale was beginning to feel entirely too hot, as Crowley went back to working his mouth over newly exposed skin.

“This all feels so strange.”

Crowley pulled back from where he'd been making his way down Aziraphale's side. “You don't like it?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Not that. It's just so quiet here. I feel so far removed from everything. The world is going on without us. I feel like… oh, _I don't know_… a new parent leaving their infant with a sitter for the first time.”

“We've both left Earth before,” Crowley pointed out. “Gone to report to head offices.”

“Yes, but not since we've branched out on our own. It just feels different, somehow.”

“Yeshua's down there. He'll look after things for a few weeks. If Jesus Christ isn't good enough to be your baby sitter, I can't imagine who would meet your expectations.”

Aziraphale laughed. “As odd as it must sound, coming from me, I think I'd be less worried if we'd left the Antichrist in charge.”

“He's busy down in Hell,” Crowley said, going back to the soft skin on the inside of Aziraphale's thigh. “Probably spending a lot less time worrying over what's going on back on Earth, while he does all the things to your _very good friend_, Oscar Wilde, that I'd like to be doing to _you_,” he added in a murmur, speaking to Aziraphale's hardening cock. “Don't fret, angel. It's our honeymoon.”

“I'm not fretting,” Aziraphale protested. But then, Crowley's mouth was enveloping him, and he forgot all about Earth, as he raised his voice to the heavens, in a startled cry of pleasure.

His voice echoed through the mountain, and rumbled the snow-capped peaks. 65 km below, at base camp, the hills were alive with the sound of music, as an avalanche broke free to bury any prospective climbers in a mountain of snow. No one was injured, but it would be weeks before they would be finished digging themselves out and repairing the damage, and any hopes of reaching the summit any time soon were thoroughly crushed beneath the weight of frozen perciptation.

Later, as they both lay, utterly spent and completely naked, on the sodden blankets, Aziraphale's silken robe a complete loss, the sky began to lighten—sun cresting the horizon far below, as a full moon still shone in the sky, and Jupiter glowed orange and yellow.

Crowley stretched, languidly, and rolled over onto his side, gazing out at the sky.

Aziraphale admired the sharp angles and lines of his body, stroking one hand over the jut of a hip. He'd always thought that Crowley's corporeal form suited his personality well. He was all sharp points and brusque angles, a jangle of nerves and hard edges, but so very cool and clever—never giving a damn about what anyone else thought of him. The serpent suited him just as well: cool to the touch and calculating in his regard, tightly bunched muscles that could be ready to strike out at a moment's notice, even as he moved, sleek and slithering, through the undergrowth. Seeing him had always given Aziraphale a little jolt of pleasure. Always thrown him off a step.

By contrast, Aziraphale had always been soft, but also solid. He could be strong when he needed to, when it was _right_, but he much preferred the peace of being a quiet bubble in the center of outward chaos.

“I love you,” he said, softly.

Crowley turned his gaze from the sky to look at him, smiling. “I love you too, angel. _Husband_.”

Aziraphale huffed and lay back, looking up at the sky. “This still feels entirely too good to be true. That we can have _this_,” he gestured between the two of them, “after _everything._”

“Almost makes you believe in a caring God.”

“She _does _care, I think,” Aziraphale said. “She just doesn't always interfere.”

“What do you think would have happened if we'd done all of _this_ a thousand years ago? What if I'd come to you in the Bastille, found you all tarted up like some shiny, French pastry, bound and waiting, and just said, ‘fuck them all,’ and taken you for myself? Or, if you'd carried me out of the rain, that first time, in the garden, and we'd sheltered under the apple tree and given the bushes a good rustle?”

Aziraphale laughed. “I don't know, but… I almost like it better this way.”

“What do you mean?”

“All those years… the centuries, millennia even, of waiting… it makes it all a bit sweeter, doesn't it? It means so much more now, having it, after waiting so long.”

Crowley snorted. “You _would _say that, bloody, stubborn, angel. You've been freely going about, enjoying all the pleasures Earth has to offer, since the beginning, but you’ve never once given up a chance to watch me squirm.”

“You do it so prettily, my dear,” Aziraphale said, leaning in to kiss him. “And, as you say, I'm _just enough of a bastard_ to enjoy it.”

It would appear that they weren't quite _entirely _spent after all, and things were heating up again, when they were suddenly interrupted by the noise of crunching ice on the trail head.

Aziraphale pulled away from Crowley to look up, and saw a man, bundled into many layers of cold weather gear, scuffing his feet against the ice, looking embarrassed and apologetic. He was accompanied by several other, similarly dressed, figures, but they all seemed much more interested in the cottage that Crowley had created for their honeymoon, than the two naked newlyweds at the top of the mountain.

“Dreadfully sorry to interrupt, sirs,” the man said. “Only, it's been a bit of trouble getting up here. One of the sherpas broke a leg on the initial ascent, and we had to weather out a blizzard for two days, and, well… I don't suppose any of that much matters. It's just my job to deliver the packages, and I have something for you here. Been on the schedule for a very long time.”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a look, and Aziraphale snapped his fingers. They were both properly clothed, if not appropriately so, in their usual attire, as they separated and got to their feet.

The delivery man held out a small, brown, paper-wrapped package, in a mittened hand. Crowley took it while Aziraphale signed.

“The view from up here is unbelievable,” he said. “You know, they call this mountain Holy Mother. It feels that way, up here. Like you're standing in the footsteps of God, looking down on the world.”

“Not quite,” Crowley said.

“There is a sort of sacred feel to the place,” Aziraphale said. “A sense of the divine.”

“Yes, that's it exactly,” The delivery man agreed. He took his clipboard back, securing it into his satchel, and rubbed his hands together to warm them, letting out a gust of breath in a deep billowing cloud, as he looked down over the world. “It's definitely an upward battle to get here, but worth it, in the end,” he said quietly.

Aziraphale and Crowley couldn't agree more.

“Well,” the delivery man said, “this will definitely be one to tell the grandkids about. I never imagined half the places I'd see when I signed on to this job, but this one tops them all.” He chuckled. “Come on boys,” he called to the sherpas, still standing around the cottage that had suddenly appeared at the top of the mountain, gesturing and loudly arguing. “I think there's cocoa and hot chicken soup waiting for us back at the bottom. Let's let these nice gents get on with their honeymoon.”

He tipped them a wink before ushering his guides back toward the trailhead, where their footprints were already being blown over with dry snow, in the light breeze.

“How did he know we were on our honeymoon?” Aziraphale asked, as they disappeared into the distance.

Crowley handed him the package.

Written upon the paper, in an elegant script were the words: Inne Celebration ovve youre longge overdue nuptials. I knowe you'll treate this withe more respect than my distant relations. Beste wishes, Agnes Nutter.

Aziraphale's eyes widened, and he felt the package-- which most definitely contained a bound ledger of some kind.

Crowley recognized the expression at once and snatched the present back. “Oh no you don't, angel. I'm putting my foot down. No more reading on the honeymoon.”

“But, Crowley, you don't _understand_,” Aziraphale started, eyes still greedily fixed on the package.

“Oh, I understand perfectly. _This_,” he waved the package in the air, “is one Pandora's box that we aren't opening until _after _we go back to work. We’ll just chuck it on the pile with the rest of the gifts, and you can open it when we're back in England.”

“_Excuse me_?” Aziraphale looked offended by the mere suggestion.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “All right then. We'll set it, _gently_, next to the other gifts, and you can give it the full attention that it deserves, when we're back in England.”

Aziraphale relaxed slightly, as they started walking back to their honeymoon cottage.

“The only wedding gift that I plan to make any use of, for the next three weeks, is Adam's," Crowley continued.

Aziraphale gave an indulgent sigh. “Did he really need to give us _so much_ lubricant?”

“I'm not letting you off this mountain until we use _all of it_,” Crowley threatened.

“Is that meant to be a challenge?”

Crowley held the door open and raised a brow.

“Well then,” Aziraphale said, holding himself straighter, as he bounced a little on the balls of his feet. “_Challenge accepted_.”

-*-

As voices raised, once more ringing out through the mountain top, (with songs those hills hadn't heard before, not even in a thousand years, but which had become a common occurrence over the last couple days,) a very small spaceship landed on a spot where a tartan blanket had been laid down over the snow.

A bird walked out, craning its neck around to look for the source of the strange noise. When there didn't seem to be any particular danger, the bird hopped over to a rocky outcropping, with a worn groove on one side, sharpened its beak, got back into its spaceship, and flew away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you all for joining me on the ride. This was supposed to be 20k words, max, but instead we have this... I don't even know what this is, but it's been a lot of fun writing it. 
> 
> I'll be working on finishing up some WIPs in a few other fandoms for a bit, but I have a couple Good Omens oneshots planned, and I'll be coming back to this series eventually. (Probably in 2021, when hopefully things are looking a bit better for everyone.)
> 
> As of this moment, the planned summary for part five is: Azazel and Lucifer tell Adam, in no uncertain terms, that it's time he created his own residence. He asks Yeshua for some help. Aziraphale and Crowley are dispatched to Hell to uncover what Yeshua is doing in the pits.
> 
> This could all possibly change between now and when I start writing, but I thought I'd give you a teaser.
> 
> If you want updates for whenever part 5 happens, make sure that you're subscribed to the series (not just this particular fic, or one of the others.)
> 
> Thanks again for sticking with me through  
this whole thing.
> 
> -*-
> 
> I have a bunch of other Good Omens fics, so if you liked this, be sure to check them out.
> 
> Comments of all shapes, sizes, and varieties are very much appreciated. I love to hear from you. Concrit is great, and I don't have a brit-picker, so please feel free to point out my missed Americanisms. I try, but I know I have some missed alternate spellings and word usages in there.
> 
> Blanket permission is granted for all translation, podfic, and fanart- as always. So, if that's something you're interested in, feel free. My playground is your playground.
> 
> Thanks for Reading


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